


The Lonesome Crowded Mojave

by beepish



Category: Fallout (Video Games), Fallout: New Vegas
Genre: Addiction, Adventure, Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Battle Royale: Jingle Jangle Edition, Bisexual Character(s), Canon-Typical Violence, F/F, F/M, Found Family, Gen, Humor, Hurt/Comfort, Lesbian Character(s), M/M, Memory Loss, Moral Ambiguity, Old Vs. New, PTSD, Power Struggle, Self-Medication, Slow Burn, Traumatic Brain Injury
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-01
Updated: 2018-12-14
Packaged: 2019-07-04 21:28:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 31,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15849705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beepish/pseuds/beepish
Summary: No one suspected a man in a checkered suit would give her two shots to the head and leave her in a shallow grave.Good thing Courier Sara wasn’t traveling alone, or she might not have crawled out of that grave to find him and pick up the pieces of who she is. Or, was? Whatever.-In which the four different faction-aligned Couriers exist in the same universe.





	1. Dame Fortuna

**The Mojave Desert — North of the Goodsprings Cemetery**

**September 28, 2281**

**21:34**

 

Clink. Clack.

“Hey, suit, will you give it a rest?” It was the first time any of them had spoken since the stakeout began. Benny didn’t bother to look at the Great Khan who addressed him. His eyes watched the moonlit road below his group of hired tribals and him. Waiting.

Clink. Clack. Clink.

“Said this was the place, right?” a different Khan grumbled. “Why’re you playin’ with that thing like you’re worried you were wrong?”

Clack.

Benny tilted his head enough to look this one in the eye. “You tryin’ to say my intel’s no good, McMurphy?”

The handlebar mustache on the Khan twitched with his frown. After the shit they went through to get here, he wasn’t about to test the guy who hadn’t paid up yet. “‘Course not. But we’ve been sittin’ here since high noon and haven’t seen hide or hair of ‘em.”

Benny tucked his lighter into the pocket of his black-and-white checked suit coat, turning his attention back to the road. “Consider it a blessing, bruiser. Taking out a caravan is a lot easier when they don’t see us comin’ first, yeah?”

McMurphy glanced at Jessup, the first Khan who had spoken up, bearing a similar scowl. “Yeah, yeah, I hear you.”

His tone made the man in the checkered suit sigh aloud and face them. “Look, if you gentlemen are so bored, why don’t we go over the plan again? Just so I know you know it.”

Of course they knew it. They wouldn’t be able to forget it if they tried. But they played along anyways, because _goddamn,_ waiting was boring.

“There’s gonna be four of ‘em,” Jessup started. “The big muscley ones at the front and back are the first to go. A hired merc and the caravan leader.”

One of the older Khans spoke up. “They’ve got a medic with ‘em, so take that one out third.”

“Then we get the courier, recover the package, and haul ‘em back to that cemetery.” McMurphy pictured how easily it would all go down in his mind. “I’m gonna remind you that we Khans don’t kill for Vegas. That’s all on you, city boy.”

He was nodding along as they relayed the plan back to him. It lent itself heavily to brute force and the element of surprise, but he was betting that a little luck would go a long way for him tonight. “I’m willing to play butcher as long as that package is secured. No package, no pay, got it?”

They all grunted or _yeah_ ’d in response. Satisfied, he looked back to the road, where he could just make out the shape of something traveling towards them in the distance. Soon, he heard the clicking hooves and deep lowing of a pack brahmin.

Benny gave a devil’s smile and a hand gesture to his crew. “Showtime, boys.”

 

* * *

 

Clink.

Clack.

Clink. _Ow._

Clack. _Ow, fuck._

Her head— Clink. _OW._ Her head hurt.

Clack. Her head _really fucking_ hurt.

The sharp, metallic clicking went on as she came to. Each one sent a new bolt of equally sharp pain screaming through her skull, front to back to front. Eventually, she found her words.

Clink. “Shut,” Sara slurred, spitting out the dirt in her mouth. “Shut the fffuck up... you goddamn…”

Miraculously, the clicking stopped. Her headache persisted. She heard a laugh and a snide remark. The voice — voices? — were unfamiliar.

Her eyes squeezed shut against the pain, but she fought to open them. The first thing she saw was a lamp, perched behind a hole in the ground. She wriggled her hands, bound and gloved in front of her.

Clack. _Ow._

“Rise and shine, girlie,” a smooth voice said.

Someone grabbed the back of her collar and yanked her to her knees. Her brain might as well have imploded, blacking out the edges of her vision as she doubled over, whining. As the agony faded enough to give her control again, the scene in front of her came into focus.

There was a man in a checkered suit smoking a cigarette. He stood with one hand in his pocket, casual as an evening stroll. Backing him up were a few rough-looking fellows, sporting rugged leather vests and dusty shovels.

The well-groomed man brought the cigarette to his lips, took a deep drag, and flicked it to the ground. He snuffed it with a semi-polished shoe as he blew out a cloud of smoke.

“Let’s get this over with,” he said, mostly to himself. He stretched his neck and squared his shoulders before finally meeting her eyes.

The gravity of the situation began to push through her massive headache. _You’re in danger. These men want to hurt you. You should definitely be running._

Her bound limbs and the guns at their sides disagreed. She was frozen to the spot, petrified.

The man put on a sympathetic smile, one so genuine she almost believed it. “I know it’s looking real bad for you, girlie,” he said. His hand pulled a metal coin from his coat pocket. The way it threw the lamplight and moonlight around transfixed her for a second. It was larger than any coin she’d ever seen. “Dame Fortuna’s really smiling on me, though. Guess it just ain’t your night.” He looked at the metal in his hands like it were a bar of gold before stashing it back in his pocket.

One of the guys behind him was shuffling from foot to foot, scanning the area. “C’mon, we’re runnin’ outta moonlight. The others are gonna come lookin’ for her once they’re up, too.”

A warm desert breeze carried dust and the scent of cactus flower around them. The man in the checkered suit held up a finger to hush the one who’d spoken. “C’mon, you know I ain’t a fink. If I gotta kill someone, I don’t do it without looking ‘em in the face first. It’s called ethics, y’dig?”

With that, he reached back into his coat pocket and brought out a different piece of shiny metal. Only this one was a little bigger, and suspiciously pistol-shaped.

Sara realized that it was, in fact, a shiny, shiny pistol.

"From where you're kneeling, this must seem like an eighteen-carat run of bad luck. Truth is?" Her shoulders tensed as she met her executioner's gaze once more. He cocked the gun and aimed it at her, a frown on his face and an apology in his eyes.

This was something he had to do, or thought he had to do, but didn’t particularly want to.

“Please…” she croaked, too quietly for them to hear.

“The game was rigged from the start.”

“Wait!” she blurted out. Her eyes stung with tears, but she held eye contact. When he didn’t dismiss her, she continued. “You don’t have to do this. Please don’t kill me, I won’t tell anyone I saw you, you can trust me!”

The man’s jaw went rigid, his expression steeled.

“Sorry, girlie,” he said, “I really can’t.”

 _RUN_.

The exact moment her body jerked to escape, to fight back, to do _anything,_  the first shot rang through the air.

She never even heard the second.

 

* * *

 

“What do you _mean_ we lost the courier?” Helena demanded. _Dévla,_ _goddammit!_ They were so _close!_ After all those checkpoints from Sac-Town to Shady Sands, through Maxson, Boneyard, and the _fucking_ Hub, all the way up the Long 15, they lost the courier. They were on the very last leg of the trip, but it didn’t matter anymore. Gone. Fuckin’ _bye!_ “She was the one carrying the package! You know, the thing we need to deliver so we get paid?”

The caravaneer threw her a cold glare. He was rubbing a small cut on his stubbly chin. “Yeah, I got that, rodeo,” he said. “We were ambushed. I thought you were supposed to be watchin’ our flank.”

Her cheeks heated in indignation. “And I thought _you_ were supposed to be watching our front!” The black Stetson sitting on her shaved head tilted sideways. She chucked it to the ground and crossed her arms with a frustrated groan.

“Ludwig, Helena,” a smaller voice interrupted. “Can we please focus?”

She cocked her head at their medic. He stared at her pleadingly before shaking the sand out of his short, coiled hair. She sighed and threw her arms up in defeat. “What do you want from me, Solomon?”

Their assailants had dropped on them without warning. They hit from every side, armed with shovels and pipe irons, outnumbering them two-to-one. They’d left the three of them knocked out cold on the ground, but took the courier girl. The moon falling westward suggested it hadn’t happened that long ago.

Ludwig spit on the ground and pushed back his dark hair for the millionth time. “Of course this would happen. You see any patrols nearby, any real checkpoint since Primm twenty miles back?”

No one responded besides the scattered crickets and soft breeze.

“Maybe we drew too much attention as a caravan,” Helena muttered, picking up her hat and dusting it off. “Maybe she should have been traveling alone.”

Ludwig stood up, winding the pack brahmin’s leads around his hand. “Nah, this wasn’t some chem-poppin’ raider group. They knew where we were gonna be, when we were gonna be there. They were organized. We should’ve been more prepared.”

“Does it matter now? Let’s just concentrate on finding her.” Solomon said. “Look, that town we passed earlier isn’t far. We’ll ask around, see if someone’s seen her. She couldn’t have just vanished.”

After a soft click and a pat on one of the bovine’s two heads, the group began moving quickly. It wasn’t the most solid plan, but it was the only one they had.

At least, until a distant light to her left caught Helena’s eye a few minutes later.

She pointed towards the hill it came from. “See that?”

They paused. Ludwig squinted. “Is that a... robot?”

Together, they veered closer to the hill than their original destination. A weird, sinking feeling set itself in Helena’s gut. Something was very wrong here.

They closed in on the top of the hill, the sound of metal scraping through dirt growing louder. When they finally arrived at the scene, nobody knew quite what to make of it.

It was indeed a robot, a tall, broad thing with two arms balancing on one set of tires, digging through the dirt of a small cemetery. It faced the screen on its front towards the group, the image of a cartoon cowboy head flickering almost ominously.

“Howdy, pardners!” the robot called out, unnervingly cheerful. “Now, don’t mind the pun — it’s actually a real serious matter — but, would y’all be so kind as to giving me a hand here?”

Right below it, sure enough, was a hand sticking straight out of the ground.

Ludwig wasted no time in joining the robot. He didn’t say a word, boring into the earth furiously.

“Oh, shit.” Helena followed suit a moment after. “Solomon, go get help.”

The medic turned on his heel and sprinted towards the sleepy town. They had to have a doctor there.

The tang of copper filled the air as more of the body was unearthed. Helena dug frantically through the last layer of dirt, uncovering a head of faded violet hair.

“It’s her,” she exclaimed. _“Fuck,_ it’s her!”

Shoving more dirt out of the way, she found the courier turned onto the left side of her face. She was limp, drained of color, and completely unresponsive.

Gently, Helena rolled her head to face forward, and nearly jumped back.

The left side of the courier’s head was a bloody mess. Two bullets had found their way across her temple and above her ear. Her wounds were sticky, coated in dirt and congealed blood.

Helena swore. “We’re too late. She’s good as dead.”

Uncovering the rest of her body, Ludwig lifted her from the grave, supporting her head. “She’s still breathin’, ain’t she? Here, robot, take her to the town doctor as fast as that wheel can go. Helena, go with him. I’ll be right behind you.”

“You can count on me, pardner!” The robot took the motionless body of the courier in his bendy arms as tenderly as he could, then rolled down the hill at a pace Helena struggled to keep up with.

She looked at the bloodied face of the courier as they approached the town. God, she was so _young._ What was in that package that was worth murdering a girl over?

Past the saloon and the general store, Solomon stood in front of a house on a hill, waving and jumping. “Over here! Bring her here!” An older man stood in the front door behind him, rubbing sleep from his eyes. As soon as he caught sight of the robot barrelling towards him, he woke up pretty quickly.

The robot was too tall to fit in the doorway, so Helena carried her inside. “In here,” the old man directed, ushering them into a room with a twin-sized bed, more medical equipment than you’d expect, and a surgery table. It didn’t look like nearly enough to bring someone back from the grave. “How long ago was she shot?”

“It couldn’t have been longer than fifteen minutes, max,” Solomon said, taking out whatever he could use from his own medic pack. “We were ambushed maybe forty minutes ago. We didn’t hear gunshots after we woke up ten minutes ago. It must’ve happened before then, but not long. Helena, can you get some purified water?”

She rushed down the hallway and grabbed an armful of bottles from some supply shelves. Under different circumstances, she would’ve considered the etiquette of rummaging through what appeared to be this generous man’s house, but she already knew she’d repay him.

By the time she walked back into the room, the two men had fully prepped for surgery, shining a light down on the courier. They’d already hooked her up to an IV and an oxygen tank.

Helena would never call herself squeamish, but brain surgery wasn’t her favorite thing to watch. She handed them whatever tools they needed, held up Solomon’s arm as he transfused his blood to her. But after the third hour, she didn’t argue when they told her they could take it from there.

Back in the cold night air, she found Ludwig smoking on the front steps. She spotted his brahmin in an empty enclosure, free from its pack, as she sat down next to him. The robot was gone.

“How is she?” he asked, head resting on his knees.

“Not dead,” she replied. “Those two know what they are doing. Still, it would be a miracle if she makes it.”

“A miracle, or somethin’ like it.” Ludwig held up a messenger bag and handed it to her. “I found her bag. They took the package, but left everything else, even the caps.”

She dug through it. A beat-up 10mm pistol in its holster, some ammo, a few caps, two Stimpaks, and a note, which turned out to be the delivery order. But no delivery.

“Says here the package was a platinum poker chip.” The courier never told them what it was, saying it was top secret. Whoever it was supposed to be protected from obviously found it. “Why ambush a whole caravan for some kind of souvenir?”

Ludwig shrugged, taking a drag. “Beats me. But we don’t get paid without deliverin’ that little trinket, right?”

 _“Dévla,”_ Helena groaned. “I am tired as hell.”

“It’s gonna be a long night, rodeo.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> alt chapter title: "you know what it is, bitch"  
> my personal blog is http://beepish.tumblr.com if you want to give me a follow!


	2. I Don't Know Now What I Knew Then

******Goodsprings — Doc Mitchell’s House**

**October 12, 2281**

**13:48**

 

Tick.

Tock.

Tick. _Ow._

Tock. _Fucking ow._

The pain was the first thing she registered. Before she remembered she had eyes to open, before she remembered she had limbs to move, before she remembered she had breath to take. Although the ticking of a clock and the whirring of a ceiling fan somewhere were the only noises she heard, they caused a pressure in her skull steady enough to feel like she was being crushed by something real and solid.

But soon enough, Sara recognized the orange glow of sunlight permeating through her eyelids. She only bothered trying to open them once she was sure it wouldn’t increase her headache tenfold.

It only felt twice as bad. She decided that was as good as it was gonna get.

She squinted against the light shining through the blinds in front of her. That hurt more, so she tried to turn over onto her left side.

Ah, there it was. That was tenfold.

Her vision burst into bright flashes, a sharp pain spiking from the left side of her cranium outward. Gasping and squeezing her eyes shut again, she curled into a ball, waiting for the immobilizing pain to subside.

Was there a word to describe feeling like you should be experiencing déjà vu, but weren’t? She could swear she was just in a similar situation, but she wasn’t sure if that was a dream or not. Maybe this was the dream and she would be waking up soon. That must be it.

“I’m dreaming,” she whimpered, breathless. “I’m dreaming, I’m dreaming. Wake up, wake up, wake up.”

No such luck.

A hand on her shoulder and a soft voice brought her back to awareness. “Hey, now, easy. Take it easy. Breathe.”

The voice kept telling her to _keep breathing, you’re okay, slow down._ She didn’t know what else to do but hone in on those words and follow the instructions, taking the time to count her breaths. They were out of rhythm, hitching every so often as if she were choking.

Her head hurt. Her head hurt so _fucking_ bad.

There was nothing but that world of pain for a while, she couldn’t tell you how long. But the soothing hand on her shoulder and the gentle rhythm of a man’s voice, slowly but surely, calmed her down.

By the time she reigned in her hyperventilation, the pain had dulled to a steady, horrible ache. And when she opened her eyes, she was lying on her back in bed, looking towards an elderly man with a sorrowful look on his face.

Sara reached up to her left eye. She couldn’t see out of it.

“Don’t worry about yer vision,” the man said, keeping that one grounding hand on her shoulder. “It’s covered by a bandage, but that’s not where the damage is.”

“That…” She swallowed, her mouth dry and sticky. Her voice came out a rasp, clearly out of use. “That sounds like the good news.”

He smiled, the corners of his wrinkled eyes crinkling kindly. “The good news is that yer alive.”

Yeah. Tell that to the constant grenade detonation that was her head. She would’ve told him as much if she could just unclench her jaw.

The man went on. “I told the others you were stable enough to take off the IV just this mornin’. Thought I saw you flutter yer eyelids a bit, but didn’t expect you to wake up and talk so soon.” He carefully removed his hand from her shoulder, as if she might crumble to pieces if he let go.

She didn’t, though, to the relief of them both.

“I’m Doc Mitchell. Welcome to Goodsprings. Can I ask you a couple questions, let you get yer bearings?”

Her body relaxed as much as it could, considering the ache. “Yeah. Shoot.”

“Okay. First question’s an easy one. Can you tell me yer name?”

Sara opened her mouth. Then closed it, furrowing her brow.

Doc Mitchell hummed. “Well, I know the answer if you don’t. Yer friends told me your name was Sara.”

“Sara,” she repeated. The word rolled around her mouth, feeling familiar, but somehow… “No, that’s… that’s not… I don’t think that’s right.”

She sat up, assisted by the doctor, telling her to take it slow. The pain in her head intensified, accompanied by a wave of nausea. Both quieted once she was upright, focusing on her breathing.

“They didn’t mention a surname,” he said, shrugging. “You got one?”

Sara thought. She really did, long and hard. Whatever she was looking for was just somewhere out of her reach, like she had thought about it once and then lost her train of thought and couldn’t circle back to it. “Yeah, but I can’t… remember it. Sara’s not my real name. I don’t know what it is.”

Doc Mitchell frowned. He tilted his head, peering at her through wizened eyes. “Well, you know that much. That’s good. Next question. How old are you?”

“I’m…” Another worryingly long pause. She concentrated, blinking rapidly into space, digging as deep as she could. “Um. I think… maybe, twenty?”

His brow quirked upward. An absurdly amused smile broke through. “Twenty, huh? You look real young for yer age, then.”

Sara squinted at him. “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

When he realized she was serious, the doctor’s brow returned to tense confusion. “I mean that by all accounts, you don’t look a day over sixteen. Could be yer metabolism’s faster than a gecko on Psycho, but I’m sayin’ you don’t even look like yer done growin’.”

She gave him a long, calculating look. Then, she shrugged.

“That’s fine, too,” he reassured her. “I had some more questions, but I’m throwin’ ‘em out the window in favor of a broader one. Can you remember anything that happened to you before you woke up today?”

She sighed shortly through her nostrils, turning away from him and staring at the bedsheets. The ceiling fan above her rotated lazily, giving only the slightest movement of air that was better than nothing. The clock in the other room was still tick, tock,

tick,

tock,

ticking away.

“I remember,” Sara said, “a man with an annoying lighter. He wouldn’t stop… flicking it open. And shutting it. It was too loud and it hurt my head.”

“Yer head hurt already? So you’d taken a blow to the noggin before it happened?”

She glanced at the doctor, still reaching for the memories crawling back to her. “Before what happened?”

There was pause. He pressed his lips together, looking off to her left before meeting her eyes again. “Before you were shot in the head.”

Tick.

Tock.

Tick.

Sara reached up to her face again, moving past her covered eye, and gently touched her temple. Her head was wrapped up in bandages just above her ear. Her violet hair was pinned to the right, tied in a hasty ponytail that she didn’t do. When she pressed against her head with only the slightest pressure, she shrieked.

The pain returned in full force, and so did the memory of a man in a checkered suit. How she knelt in the dirt in front of him. How he admired a small metal coin that caught orange and blue light. How he pointed a pistol right at her face and mercilessly pulled the trigger.

When she came back to herself, she was back to hyperventilating, tears spilling from her eyes, unbidden. When had that started? It only made her headache worse. She barely heard the doctor’s soft words break through to her. Again, he helped her remember to breathe.

There was a door opening somewhere, followed by loud footsteps and a panicked voice. Doc Mitchell hushed them, said something in a more urgent tone than the one he returned to using with her. By the time she cleaned up her face, he procured for her a bottle of clean water, which she accepted gratefully.

“When did she wake up?” a man asked. “Want me to get the others?”

“No, no, let her rest. She’s in rough shape,” the doctor said.

Sara focused again on regulating her breathing and sipped from the bottle, turning to see the new visitor. There was a twenty-something man with dark brown eyes as kind as Doc Mitchell’s. His worried frown bloomed into a hundred-watt grin.

“Hey, sleeping beauty.” His voice was warm and friendly, like audible honey. “I was wondering when you were gonna wake up. Oversleep, much?”

She looked back and forth between his right and left eyes a few times. She found it mesmerizing how they were almost the same shade as his skin. His presence helped calm her dramatically. “Hi. How… uh, how long was I out?”

“Two whole weeks!” He never stopped smiling, like that was such an exciting fact. “I said you’d wake up soon, and Doc Mitchell agreed, but you know Ludwig, the ol’ stick in the mud. He said if you didn’t, we’d have to leave without you! But you did!”

His energy was infectious, and if his voice wasn’t so smooth, the volume would’ve been killer on her head. So she snorted in spite of her sniffles and teary eyes. “I sure did. Who’s Ludwig, again? And, um, also, how do we know each other?”

The moment of confusion was just a flash across his face before he made an ‘O’ with his full lips. And then he let out a long, “Oooooooohhhhh. Ohh no. Oh. Dang, they really did a number on you, didn’t they?”

She nodded, pointing at her left temple. “Yeah, I… I guess a bullet to the head will do that to someone.”

“Two bullets,” Doc Mitchell piped in, otherwise playing as a witness to the retrouvailles. “We dug out two nine-millimeter bullets from yer noggin there.”

She blinked at him. “I’m sorry. Two? Someone shot me _twice,_ in the _head,_ and I survived?”

“It definitely had something to do with the angle,” the visitor said, pulling up a chair from a nearby desk. “You’d turned your head at just the right moment that the first bullet basically skimmed into your skull and planted itself halfway in gray matter before getting too deep.”

Doc Mitchell leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms. “Unfortunately, the second was probably fired after the first knocked you unconscious. That one was a direct hit. Left yer temporal lobe a right mess.”

“Took us the entire night to pick all those little bits of lead out,” the visitor said, sticking a hand in Sara’s direction. “Since your memory isn’t what it used to be, let’s start fresh. Hi, I’m Solomon Harper! And you are?”

She took his hand, shaking it half as firmly as he did. “Um. Sara, I guess.”

“No last name this time?”

“Sara isn’t even my real name. I don’t remember what it is.”

Solomon nodded sagely, mercifully letting her hand go. “Yeah, I figured you’d picked it as a cover name when you became a courier. Told us, ‘Just Sara,’ when we first met. You like keeping your own business to yourself, I understand.”

A courier name. She was a courier. Why she used a cover name, let alone picked that one, was beyond her reach. “Yeah. That sounds about right.”

Solomon’s grin dimmed to a glowing smile as he stood up. “Well, nice to meet you, Courier Sara! I’ll go tell our friends about the new situation. Get some rest.” He paused in the doorway, pointing right at her. “Medic’s orders.”

She smiled at the doorway as she heard the front door close. “If the sun was a person, I think it’d be that guy.”

Doc Mitchell laughed, a good-natured wheeze. “I’ll tell you, he was real concerned about you, always checkin’ in and makin’ sure you were breathin’. I don’t think he even knew you very well. None of yer travelin’ companions did, I reckon.”

“Well…” Sara laid back down, exhausted. “That makes all of us.”

 

* * *

 

Laying in bed all day was hell.

Doc Mitchell wouldn’t even give her a mirror to see what she looked like. He said that seeing yourself with bandages over half your head would be scarier than seeing what the damage underneath looked like. He told her to wait until the wounds had scarred over enough.

It seemed like they never would. Maybe she was just getting impatient. He lent her some mostly-undamaged books to help pass the time, but they never held her attention for very long.

Two days after she woke up, Doc Mitchell started helping her walk again. At first it gave her overwhelming nausea, coupled with severe vertigo. It was alarming how she could barely move a few feet, even when leaning most of her weight on him, before her legs decided to give up. He said it would get better with practice.

She got two visitors that day, a Hispanic woman with dark brown hair thrown in a bun and a dog trotting beside her.

“Cute dog,” Sara said, facing her palm up towards the pooch. She sniffed her hand thoroughly before giving her finger a quick lick and retreating.

The woman laughed. “If Cheyenne likes you, I like you. Name’s Sunny Smiles. Wanted to meet the courier who survived two shots to the head. Come on by the saloon once you’re back with the living, yeah?”

With a wink and a wave, she left. Sara liked her, too.

On the fifth day, with the doc’s help, she could make it to the front door, although still accompanied by the spins. She didn’t care to open it, though, knowing the sunlight would make it worse.

A week after she woke up, she could make it to the bathroom with only a little help. The mirror in there was broken and clouded, showing her just the vague shape of what she looked like. Even with her head redressed to allow her left eye vision again, it wasn’t enough. As he guided her back to the bed that had become her new home as well as her prison, there was a knock on the front door.

He went to answer it as she sat down on the bed, worn out from such a long journey. When he returned, he wasn’t alone.

A woman in a black cowboy hat and leather armor stepped in behind him. She removed her metal-rimmed sunglasses, revealing hard eyes a much lighter color than her skin. “Howdy,” she said, waving. “I do not know if you remember me. Solomon said your memory was gone. I brought you something, though.”

She handed a small plastic bottle to Doc Mitchell, who shook it triumphantly. “Knew you’d find a stash somewhere.” He fiddled with them on his desk and then placed a pill in her hand. “We’ll start you on a full dose of Med-X, but take half-doses after today. Ran out before you woke up, so I had Helena scavenge a bit.”

Helena snorted. “It beat sitting around listening to Ludwig flirt with the shopkeep. And the bartender. And the robot.” She had a heavy accent, trilling her R’s and annunciating every word and consonant. It sounded peculiarly pleasant.

Sara smiled, unscrewing her water bottle. “Well, thanks for this. I’m sure I’ll get used to my head feeling like it’s being kicked in every two seconds, but meds help.”

“Don’t mention it,” the woman said, waving her off. “I am happy you recovered. What do you remember from that night? Who shot you?”

She almost choked on her water.

“She’s been sayin’ she ain’t ready to talk about it,” Doc Mitchell filled in while she recovered. “Ain’t exactly a pleasant thing to recount.”

“It is still one of the only things she _can_ recount, yeah?” Helena crossed her arms, but held a placid expression. “And she is the only one who can.”

Doc Mitchell opened his mouth to respond, but Sara interjected. “No, she’s right. I’m the only one who knows what happened in that graveyard.” She turned towards Helena. “As soon as I’m allowed to leave this house, I’ll tell you all about it. Promise.”

She nodded, sliding her shades back in place. “Good. I hope the rest of your healing continues smoothly.” She tipped her hat and made for the exit. “See you around.”

Doc Mitchell sighed as the door closed with a firm thump. “Can’t say she’s the most… tactful person I’ve met, but her heart’s in the right place.”

Sara laid back down and closed her eyes. She was sick of sleeping, but couldn’t think of a better way to escape the pounding in her head before the medicine kicked in.

 

* * *

 

That night, for the first time, she woke up with only half the amount of pain she went to sleep with. It was such a considerable relief that she sat herself up and gingerly planted her feet on the floorboards.

She’d woken up from a nightmare, a developing recurrence that worried her. It was the same scene playing over and over — the man in the suit, the lamplight and moonlight bouncing off a metal coin, and ending the same way every time.

She needed air.

Doc Mitchell was snoring in his room. He’d left her pack sitting next to her bed, and within it, she found a spare set of clothes — just a black tank top, flannel button-up, and comfortable pants. She dressed quickly, tugged on her boots, and pulled herself to her feet. Once she was safely vertical, she made her way to the shelf full of medical supplies near the doorway, grabbing a pair of crutches leaning on the wall.

They helped. Sara stood at the front door, listening to make sure the doc’s snores continued. After a few moments, she took a silent breath and opened it.

The moon, hanging like an eyelash in the sky, was infinitely kinder to her head than the sun. Outside stood a town at the bottom of the hill that Doc Mitchell’s house perched on. Down the road was the general store and the saloon, along with a few patched-up houses and fenced-in pens. To her left was an old Poseidon Energy gas station with a flickering vending machine.

A vending machine meant a drink that wasn’t plain water.

She hobbled to the gas station on her crutches as fast as possible. Bracing herself and taking hold of the machine’s door, she yanked it open, expecting it to resist.

She fell flat on her ass. Someone had already had the same idea long ago and broke in. At least she had the grace to stop her head from hitting the ground. The jostling from the landing rattled her badly enough.

As soon as she fought through the resurging headache, she lit up, finding not one, but three bottles of soda. She wasn’t sure what kind, but she scuffled on her hands and knees to scoop them up, ditching the crutches.

A glare of light to her left caught her eye. She froze as she realized it came from Doc Mitchell’s home. Had that been on when she left?

“Shit,” she hissed. He might put her back in that grave after he’d told her to stay in bed until she was fully recovered. She had to hide before he came looking for her.

Getting to her feet was easier with adrenaline as she headed for the door of the gas station. She fumbled with the doorknob, swung inside as the door gave way, and pressed it shut behind her. Clutching the three bottles to her chest, she giggled nervously, her act of rebellion the most exciting thing that’s happened to her since—

A gun cocked behind her. “Don’t move,” a man threatened. “Move and you’re dead.”

Since right now, apparently.

Sara peeked at him over her shoulder. From the dim lantern on the counter, she could make out the features of a young, bare-faced man with mussed hair. His hands were shaking ever so slightly. His grimace said dangerous, but his wide eyes and quickened breath said startled. He was in his underclothes, most definitely not expecting visitors.

She held up her right hand. “Sorry,” she said. “I didn’t know anyone was in here.”

“Bullshit,” he snarled. “I know Cobb sent you. You’re one of _them,_ ain't ya?”

She carefully turned to face him completely. “I don’t… think I am?” As soon as the bandaged half of her head came into view, his expression halted, eyebrows raising.

He lowered his gun, shoulders relaxing as he stared at the left side of her face. “Oh, shit, what happened to you? Did they do this?”

“Does Cobb wear a checkered suit?”

He let out a bark of laughter, short and unexpected. “Last time I checked, no.”

She smiled, relieved to see him holster his pistol. When he wasn’t threatening to shoot her, he seemed like an upstanding guy. The same could probably be said for most people.

Probably not people who wear tacky suits.

There was a groan from the other side of the counter. “Ringo,” a gruff voice said, “whossat? Thought I locked that door behind me.”

Ringo looked towards the voice, looked at her, and then down at the ground sheepishly. “It's just some girl.”

“Shit, did I wake y’all up?” She noted his state of undress and felt decidedly embarrassed. “I’m sorry, I needed a walk outside and I thought—”

There was a sharp inhale and scrambling of blankets as a man jumped to his feet behind the counter. He pushed back a mess of dark hair, alarm written all but literally across his pale, scruffy face as he gave her a once-over.

“You outta your goddamn mind?” he scolded. “The hell are you doin’ outside? Ain’t no way you’re back to one-fuckin’-hundred percent already.”

She blinked at him listlessly. “Do we know each other?”

His expression softened. Then, he chuckled. “Barely, as a matter of fact. You ain’t exactly an open book, Sara, so friendly backstory-sharin’ by the fireside wasn’t really a thing.”

A smile tugged at her lips. “You must be Ludwig. Nice to meet you. Again.”

Ringo stood between them, looking back and forth. “I can't tell if that means y’all know each other or not.”

“She’s the courier girl I was talkin’ ‘bout.” Ludwig grinned, shaking his head. “Y’know, the one who came back from the grave?” He turned back to her, brow creasing. “So the nerd was right. Y’ain’t got a clue ‘bout yourself, huh?”

Sara shook her head. “Doc won't give me a mirror yet even though I can't remember my face. It probably doesn't look exactly like it used to, anyways.”

“Shit. That sucks.” Ludwig yanked on a pair of pants, throwing another to Ringo.

“You wanna know what really sucks? Mandatory bedrest.” She crossed her arms. “I couldn't stare at the ceiling for another night.”

“So y’came here?”

She chewed her lip and looked vaguely around the room. It was small, adorned simply with a few shelves, crates, and empty cans and bottles strewn about. There was a second lamp sitting on the counter, now lit thanks to Ludwig. “I didn’t wanna run into anyone who would tell Doc. And I was really cravin’ a Nuka Cola, so…”

Ringo pointed at the bottles she was holding like a protective mother. “Those ain’t Nuka Colas, you know that, right?”

Sara looked down at her treasure. He was right. They were some shade of amber, with _Sunset Sarsaparilla_ printed on the label. She set them down on the counter, a dizzy spell swiftly creeping in. Steadying herself on the counter, she tried to look totally fine. “They…  any good?”

“Whoa, hey, why don’t you take a load off?” Ludwig said, lifting an empty crate from the counter to the floor. He grabbed the sarsaparilla while Ringo guided her to sit on the crate before taking a seat next to Ludwig over the bedroll’s blanket.

Ludwig watched her carefully as the dizziness passed. “That happen a lot?” He uncapped and handed her one of the three bottles, doing the same for himself and Ringo.

“It’s getting better.” With her head clearing up just as quickly as it clouded, she took a tentative sip. Her nose scrunched up and she looked at the bottle, offended.

“Don’t like it?” he laughed before taking a swig himself.

She shook her head. “I do, it’s just… unexpected, is all.”

Ringo downed half his bottle in one go and gave a hearty belch. “Better get used to it, these things are everywhere in the Mojave! I swear to God, someone goes around refilling all the damn machines.”

She laughed and took a good gulp of it. It wasn’t so bad the second time around, now that she knew what she was up against. When she wiped her mouth, she met Ludwig’s eyes still scrutinizing her. “What?”

He shrugged. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but for the entire few weeks we traveled together, I don’t recall you laughing like that before.”

“Like what?”

“I don’t know. Genuinely?”

She snorted. “Was I like… a total asshole to y’all before I got a couple holes in my skull?”

It was his turn to laugh. The dim lamplight deepened the crinkles in the corners of his eyes, making him look older than the late 30’s he might’ve been. “Nothin’ like that, but you weren’t exactly a ray of sunshine neither, buttercup.”

“Huh. Weird.”

After emptying another quarter of his bottle, Ringo hummed and raised a finger like he’d just remembered something. “Hey,” he said, “you up for a hand of Caravan?”

Ludwig batted him on the knee, smiling. “Hey, yeah! You were the only one who could kick my ass at this game, wanna give it a go?”

She stared blankly, something that she felt was becoming too common an occurrence. “Caravan?”

“Wow,” said Ludwig. “Amnesia’s a bitch. Alright, here, we can share my deck and team up against this rookie here.” He positioned himself so he and Sara faced Ringo, who produced a deck of his own.

They spent a good hour playing Caravan, Sara and Ludwig against Ringo. As they showed her how to play and explained each of their moves, it was like pieces of a puzzle falling into place. She found herself recalling simple things, small tips that she’d picked up here and there. When she suggested a move that Ludwig hadn’t considered on his turn, she felt that long-awaited sense of déjà vu, feeling like she’d done that same move a million times before.

“That was probably your favorite trick to pull,” he chuckled. “Used to trip me up before I figured it out.” He gathered up his cards, mirroring Ringo as he shuffled them back into his deck.

She grinned back, bouncing her leg excitedly. “It’s totally clicking for me now. Can I play a hand?”

As if to make a point, Ludwig yawned loudly. “Not tonight. Sun should be up in a few hours. Can’t believe Doc Mitchell hasn’t raised the whole town in alarm yet. How ‘bout we get you back to him now?”

She had completely forgotten about her well-meaning prison guard and almost — almost — forgotten the constant ache focusing itself on the left side of her head. Disappointed, she pouted. “Fine. I know you’re just scared I’ll beat you on my first try.”

He just snorted. “Yeah okay, punk, up you go.”

With a farewell and thank you to Ringo, she allowed Ludwig to help her to her feet and out of the gas station building. She was quietly grateful for the assistance in gathering up the crutches. Apparently her legs could only survive a one-way trip.

He stayed with her as she made her way back to the Doc’s house, feeling like a dog with its tail between its legs. Doc Mitchell answered the soft rap on the door, looking between the two of them like a stern parent.

“Y’know,” he said, “I would be impressed if I wasn’t supposed to be upset. Saw you outside from my window. I’m not as light of a sleeper as you think I am, young lady.”

She did her best impression of an apologetic puppy. “Sorry, Doc. I just… really needed some air, is all.”

Ludwig gave her a firm pat on the back that almost toppled her. “And a sarsaparilla. Don’t forget the sarsaparilla.”

The Doc sighed, although unable to keep the amusement out of his voice. “Get back to bed. Don’t do it again without telling me first.”

She bid Ludwig good night and dragged herself back to her bed, where she spent another hour staring at the ceiling. Thinking. Trying to remember.

If she could remember how to play a card game, chances were, she could remember who she was. Where she came from. How fucking old she actually was.

“At least twenty,” she whispered, closing her eyes and giving sleep another go before her headache could get worse again. “I’m not a teenager, goddammit.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> can you imagine waking up feeling like your hangover had a hangover and you don't remember drinking the night before??
> 
> thank you for reading! let me know what you think, I'd love to know what I can work on or what you liked!


	3. The Unfamiliar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> you are you, but who are you?

******New California — East of The Hub, on the Long 15**

**September 26, 2281**

**01:52**

 

The fire sank low into its resting place on the embers. Courier Sara poked it with a twig, but soon lost interest and reclaimed her sitting position watching the starlit horizon. She remained still, her back to the fire. The silence was somehow louder than the crickets hiding in the desert foliage around her.

Her head was resting on her knees when the caravan leader, Ludwig, came to relieve her. “Hey, mailman,” he greeted, tapping her on the shoulder. “My turn. We should reach the outpost sometime tomorrow, so you’d better get plenty of rest.”

She shrugged vaguely, her expression placid. “I’m not tired. You can go back to bed.”

Ludwig would’ve taken it for a foul mood if she had ever been in a comparably pleasant one. Unfortunately, this was standard fare, so he just took up a spot on the ground beside her.

The girl didn’t even acknowledge him. Her eyes methodically scanned the area for any sign of curious movement, her ears no doubt just as open. Still, even in the shadow of the dwindling firelight, he could see purple rings painted beneath her eyes.

Knowing that arguing with her was pointless, he rummaged through his pack, producing a deck of cards. He stared straight ahead and started shuffling.

That got her attention. Her gaze darted down to his hands and back up to him. He smiled and waggled an eyebrow at her.

“Up for a couple hands, then?”

She pursed her lips in thought for a second, glancing back into the endless void of the wasteland. Then, she situated herself to sit facing him, pulling out her own deck. The tension in her shoulders vanished.

Ludwig shifted too, facing her as they laid out the playing field and dealt their own hands. She smiled, betraying exhaustion, when she won three rounds out of four, and he didn’t even have to let her.

 

* * *

 

Sure enough, their little four-person caravan crossed the threshold of the Mojave Outpost by evening the next day.

“Careful,” one of the guards standing near Sara said. They were at the end of processing paperwork, a task that never went as quickly as she liked. “You’re heading to New Vegas? I suggest you head east and up the 95 through Novac. Got reports of raiders and some unruly inmates causing unrest further up I-15.”

She signed off her final paper and handed the packet to the major behind the desk. “I think we’ll manage,” she muttered, glaring at the guard as coldly as she spoke and turning on her heel to find her caravan.

The trooper blinked as the door shut behind her. “...Was it something I said?”

 

* * *

 

**Goodsprings — Doc Mitchell’s House**

**October 27, 2281**

**10:15** ****

“You ready yet?” Doc Mitchell called through the bathroom door. “With all yer pesterin’, you’d think you’d avoid takin’ yer sweet time in there.”

Showering, Sara learned, was a trickier business than she thought it’d be. Luckily, her ability to stand still without violently losing her balance returned with rest. As long as she avoided getting her head wound damp, she could manage it on her own.

“Gimme a minute!” she hollered, tugging on the freshly laundered grey tank top, flannel, and jeans she’d been shot in. It was amazing how tough a little Abraxo was against bloodstains and graveyard dirt. Her wavy-whirly hair, tamed by the water, was tied loosely over her shoulder, making sure to leave the left side of her head as visible as possible.

It was time to see the damage.

Sara met Doc Mitchell in the room she’d made peace with being stuck in. Her fingers tapped on her thigh as she sat on the bed. In his lap, he held a small, decorative mirror, face-down.

“Now,” he started. “Solomon and I did the best we could, but the first bullet damaged a larger surface area than the second. It looks a lot worse than it is at this point, okay?”

With her bandages off, she accepted the mirror and took a deep breath. Then, she faced it towards her.

“Oh,” she breathed, bright, round eyes blinking back at her through the glass. She turned her head, holding some of her violet hair back to get a better view of the left side. “Oh.”

The patch of buzzed hair started an inch above her ear and stretched over halfway towards the back of her skull. Her generous surgeons had given her the courtesy of doing as neat a job as they could about it, but it was more than she had initially imagined. She was arrested, however, by the deep, malevolent scar that dominated the entire area.

The first bullet’s path was the more visually destructive of the two, obliterating the skin just above her temple. Most of the damage sustained from the second one was invisible, internal. The surgery had left her with a long, erratic scar from the curve of her brow towards the end of the shaved patch. The healing tissue was scabbing over, and although it was an angry shade of dark crimson, it didn’t look infected. It was constantly pulsing with pain, but it was healing properly.

“Well,” she said, “at least I recognize myself.”

The doc laughed. “All things considered, that’s some good news you can’t take for granted.”

She saw what he meant about looking like she was sixteen. Her face was youthfully soft, a smattering of light freckles splayed over her nose and flushed cheeks. What she lacked further in figure and body hair — they were both _there,_ just… unremarkable — only supported his theory.

Instead of addressing that, though, she fiddled with the ponytail resting over her chest. It was a dull violet, contrasting in hue rather than intensity with the light brown creeping into her roots. “I can’t remember why I have my hair dyed. Or how I got this color.”

“Beats me. Kids always do crazy things in the name of self-expression.”

Sara pouted at his barely-restrained smirk. “Well, good thing I’m not a kid.”

He sat back in his chair, crossing his arms to accept that challenge. “If yer so sure ‘bout that, what year were you born in?”

Again, she stared at him, shoulders slumping. “I was born in, uh… Twenty-two… somethin’?”

He tilted his head, leaning forward. “Well, that puts you somewhere younger than my old man, rest his soul.”

She sighed and looked up at the ceiling, both deflated and frustrated. Just another unknown element she’d need to figure out how to remember.

Doc Mitchell gave her a pat on the shoulder. “Wait here, I got somethin’ else for you.”

He rose from his seat and went off in search of some mystery gift. After inspecting herself in the ornate handheld mirror for another minute — would that bit of eyebrow hair grow back? Is it normal to have that much of an overbite? — he returned, holding a small device that looked like some kind of bulky armguard.

“Figure you’d get more use outta this old thing than me,” the doc said, handing the armguard over to her. “They call it a Pip-Boy 3000. Go ahead, try it on.”

There was blank screen on top adorned with various dials and buttons. On the bottom was a piece hanging open by a hinge, allowing her to slip her left forearm through and latch it around her. It snapped shut and beeped. The device whirred and conformed to her arm, squeezing tightly before relaxing to a comfortable pressure. The screen flickered to life, the smiling face of a cartoon man appearing and winking. The screen brightened, asking her to touch the middle orange button below it with her thumb. Once it confirmed her thumbprint, the cartoon man was displayed in full, labeled with numbers and meters.

“Cool! What’s it do?”

“Takes note of yer vitals, for one,” the doc said. “And keeps track of the time and date. I mostly just used it for the radio back then, but you might end up usin’ it more for maps and the Geiger counter and such.”

She explored the different menus and settings on her new gadget while Doc explained as much as he could. It was removable by her thumbprint so it could fit over sleeves. He suggested keeping it on as often as possible, as it would prove an invaluable resource. She agreed, feeling like it’d get lost or stolen if she made a habit of setting it down. There were options to make notes, download and upload data, take inventory, and even track how many caps she had.

“This is awesome,” she said. “Why didn’t you let me play with this while I was bored outta my mind in bed?”

“‘Cause it ain’t a toy. These were issued to Vault-dwellers to mark the start of yer adolescence.”

“Oh.”

“Here, take one more thing,” he insisted, handing her a roll of bandages. “These should last you ‘til you find something less conspicuous to protect yer head from the wind and sand. Maybe a bandana or whatever else you can find. Last thing that injury needs is to be pelted with flying sediment for hours on end.”

No one would ever question the generosity and selflessness of Doc Mitchell. The past few weeks had more than proved that. But for some reason, the thoughtfulness of this one gesture was what made Sara’s eyes prick with tears.

She accepted the roll of bandages, then stood up, arms open. He looked up at her teary eyes before he smiled and rose to give her a warm hug.

“Thank you,” she said. He smelled like grandpa, although she wasn’t sure if she ever knew her grandparents.  “For everything.”

“Don’t mention it.” He patted her on the back before withdrawing. “Just try not to make a habit out of gettin’ shot in the head.”

He helped wrap the roll around her head just enough to shield the majority of the wound. He told her that she might experience side effects later in the healing process, and to get to a doctor if she had any issues that weren't getting better. She hoped as much as he did that it wouldn’t come to that.

With her boots laced and her messenger bag slung onto her shoulders, Sara followed Doc to the front door, where he turned her loose into the town of Goodsprings and the Mojave at large.

The light hurt at first, but she set off towards the saloon. She had a promise to keep.

 

* * *

 

 _Heartaches by the number, troubles by the score,_ the jukebox crooned across the warm room. It could only play a few songs. None of them were Helena’s favorites.

So that’s why she was lounging at one of the tables, boots propped up on a second chair, tinkering with Trudy’s busted radio. Her shades were on the table next to the borrowed tools, but her hat remained securely on her dark, buzzed head.

Removing the circuit board, it looked like she’d need some extra parts from Chet in the general store next door. As long as she kept fiddling with it, though, she wouldn’t get bored.

_Every day you love me less, each day I love you more._

“Hey.” Sunny Smiles walked in from the barroom, her mutt at her heel, as usual. “You seen Solomon anywhere? He asked me to help him with his shootin’.”

Helena’s eyes flicked up to her, then drifted back down to her work. “No. Have you asked the robot?”

Sunny scoffed, taking a seat at a nearby table. “Why anyone would take to hangin’ around an old bot is beyond me.” Cheyenne yawned and curled up at her feet.

The music droned through the sun-baked saloon. A couple people were chatting at the bar in the other room. Sunny stretched out in her chair like a cat, hooking her hands behind her head and resting in them. Helena continued tinkering quietly while Cheyenne rested her chin on her paws.

Peaceful moments were hard to come by in the wasteland. It was strange to have one last the better part of a month, especially one resulting from a murder attempt. She can’t say she didn’t want to rest after walking a few hundred miles over the course of three weeks, but she was hoping that’d happen once they were done. As it stood, the job was still unfinished.

The telltale sound of the front door opening and a bell chiming woke the room from its collective reverie. The dog perked up before anyone else.

“See you ‘round, Easy Pete!” came a girlish voice.

Helena snapped up. Cheyenne leapt towards the door.

“Cheyenne, down!”

Sara was already giggling, catching the dog who jumped up to lick her face excitedly. At Sunny’s command, she backed off and sat at Sara’s feet, tail wagging nonstop.

“Aww, what a good girl!” She bent down to give Cheyenne’s fur a good two-handed ruffling. The dog just panted in her face, ears flat and eyes half-closed with unbridled glee. Or maybe half-open.

With a quick whistle from Sunny, the mutt retreated and lied down beside her owner’s chair. “How you feelin’, sweetheart?” Sunny asked her, absent-mindedly scratching Cheyenne’s head.

Sara took a seat across the table from her. “Pretty good, considering. Headache ain’t goin’ away anytime soon, but the Med-X helps the worst of it.” At this, she smiled brightly at Helena. “Thanks again for finding those, by the way!”

Helena nodded, one corner of her lips tugging upward. The girl had a lisp on her S’s, slightly slurring them into softer sounds than they already were. “It was no problem.”

She maintained eye contact until Sara’s smile and gaze fell. “So. That night. I don’t remember what happened before I woke up, but when I did, I was lying in a cemetery by a campfire, bound at my hands and feet.”

Sunny and Helena listened with growing concern as the courier relayed the story of her murder. By the end of it, they were both faced completely towards her, leaning forward in their chairs, enrapt. Nobody said anything when Sara glanced up to gauge their reactions.

Finally, Sunny broke the silence. “Holy shit, girl.”

“I know, right?” Sara sniffled and laughed, blinking rapidly. Helena hadn’t even noticed her trying not to cry. “I don’t know how I survived, it was pretty much point-blank.”

“The man in the suit must be a shit shot,” Helena said.

She laughed again, relaxing more into her chair. “Maybe he was just unlucky.”

“Or maybe you were just luckier,” Sunny said, crossing her arms. “And you can’t remember anything else? About your life or anything?”

Sara shook her head. “Nothin’. I can remember, like… _concepts_ of things, like dogs and cards. But tryin’ to recall what to do with ‘em or any memories or facts about myself has me drawing a blank. I can’t even remember the year I was born.”

“Hmm… was it 2265?”

“I don’t think— wait, why does everyone think I’m a teenager, I swear to God.”

“Wait, you ain’t? Naw, I believe you.”

Helena watched as the courier snorted into giggles with Sunny. This wasn’t the first time someone disputed her age, but it might’ve been the nicest reaction she’s given.

“Well then,” Helena said, turning back to the disassembled radio. “Thank you for telling us what you saw. I will be sure to pass it along to the others.”

She dove back into her tinkering, expecting the conversation to be done at that point. However, Sara picked up her chair and shuffled on over, dropping anchor right beside Helena. “Hey, thanks for listening! Whatcha doin’ there, anyways?”

She looked at her. The courier was genuinely curious, inspecting the various bits of metal and plastic organized on the table. “Trudy’s radio was broken by a group of Great Khans, presumably the ones you saw when… the ones from the cemetery. I would ask her about them when she comes back.”

Sara nodded, still watching her work with great interest. “And you’re fixing it for her? That’s so cool!”

Helena shrugged. “She promised me caps for the effort.” Right then, the jukebox started crying out the lonely tune of _Johnny Guitar_ for the tenth time that day. “And Radio New Vegas plays more music than that piece of junk,” she said, glaring at the machine across the room, as if that would silence it.

Her eyes were shining, the front two teeth of her smile pressing over her lip slightly further than the rest. “You don’t like what’s on the jukebox?”

“No.” Helena had no idea how talkative this girl could be. _Dévla,_ she almost missed the courier she had been traveling with, the one who let her be and said very little. Still, the attempts at conversation were tolerable, especially when she was only half-trying to concentrate.

“Hey, Courier,” Sunny spoke up. “You remember how to shoot?”

Sara squinted in thought for a second, then turned to face her. “Like, a gun?”

“What else?” She didn't have an answer besides a grand, vague shrug. At this, Sunny grinned. “Well, I ain't carryin’ ‘round a spare rifle for nothin’. You want a refresher, seein’ as how my other student decided to play hooky?”

Sara brightened, practically jumping out of her seat. “That sounds like fun!”

“Well alright, let's head out back then. Grab some empty bottles behind the counter — we'll need some targets.” Cheyenne bounded after Sunny, following her through the barroom.

“Right!” Before she left, her purple ponytail swung as she turned and waved. “We'll chat more later, Helena!”

Helena returned with a much smaller wave. She heard the courier girl gathering up bottles in the other room, asking if Sunny was short for something.

“Sonora,” Sunny replied as they left through the back door. “Pair that with Mireles and you get Sunny Smiles. I think it suits me.”

“I think it does, too!”

_What if you're cruel, you can be kind, I know…_

She stared at the circuit board in front of her. Something about that platinum chip must have been very special to inspire such a violent act. The man Sara described didn't sound like someone to be trusted with something that important. There was a feeling in her gut, as if she were standing on the very precipice of change, waiting for a gust of wind to throw her off balance and into the abyss.

And she'd be falling in right after Courier Sara. Whoever came out of that grave was the product of a liminal transition, unseen to everyone, but most of all her.

_There was never a man, like my Johnny…_

She wondered how she’d come out herself on the other side of all this.

“Like the one they call,” lowly, she sang with Ms. Lee, “Johnny Guitar…”

 

* * *

 

The empty sarsaparilla bottles were criminals on death row, and the girl crouching with a clunky varmint rifle was their executioner. Despite the morbid comparison, Sara’s brain was buzzing with excitement.

“Am I holding it right?” She pressed her cheek against the stock, aiming down the sights.

“Yep, exactly. Lock your left arm a little more. There you go. Now click the safety off, pull back on the hammer, and fire when ready.”

Her first shot went high and wide.

And her head went _boom._

“Whoa, hey, you good?”

She barely heard her through the ringing. Her rifle was lowered, her forehead resting on her knee. “I don’t think… bits of sponge... make the best earplugs.”

Sunny winced. “Sorry, darlin’. Maybe we should wait ‘til your head ain't so tender?”

She took a deep breath and shook her head (gently). “No, I'm okay.” Then, she lined up her sights once more, concentrating on her target through the pain.

She hoped the muscle memory would kick in, but at first, the only kick she felt was the recoil. Her second shot hit one of the bottles, sending shards flying into the back wall of the saloon. The pain flared up again, but she braced for it this time.

Sunny whooped. “There you go, you got it!”

Her head was pounding, but she pulled back the hammer again and fired. And again, and again, and then the magazine was empty.

It was definitely starting to feel familiar.

“Damn, three outta five shots hit. Not bad, Lazarus.”

Sara waited for the edges of her vision to stop going fuzzy to reply. Cheyenne whined beside her. “Thanks. Eugh. I think that's enough for now.”

“Hang onto that rifle there, we can practice more another time.”

The once quieted headache raged like a brush fire in her head. Loud noises and bright lights certainly didn’t agree with her anymore. It’d probably be best to avoid aggravating her traumatic head injury from now on. Hopefully it’d get better. Going through the wasteland getting herself incapacitated every time she got in a gunfight would severely limit her lifespan out there.

“Hey, babe!” Sunny called out. “Need a hand?”

Sara slung the rifle on the shoulder opposite her bag as she stood up carefully, looking towards where Sunny was waving. Coming around the side of the saloon was Solomon and a middle-aged woman, carrying two plastic jugs of water each wrapped to long sticks resting on their shoulders.

“Howdy, darlin’!” the woman replied. “Mind grabbin’ the door for us?”

Sunny rushed over, holding the door open for the two. At her ushering, Sara followed her and Cheyenne back into the saloon.

The pair set the jugs down behind the counter, followed by Solomon falling onto a barstool, breathless. “Dang, Trudy,” he huffed, wiping sweat from his brow. “Those things get _heavy,_ and you usually take two trips to the well? By yourself?”

She shrugged. “Oh, it ain’t so bad once you do it for a couple decades. I can certainly think of worse jobs out there.” She unscrewed one of the jugs, pouring it over into the dispenser until it rested on top of it. “Speaking of, how’s our young courier here doing?”

Sara took a seat next to Solomon. “Alright, but gunshots are too loud to handle right now.”

“I’ll bet,” she said. “That was quite a blow you took there, missy. Doc Mitchell might’ve taken you off bedrest, but you should still take it easy.”

She wanted to rub both her temples to quell the pain, but settled on the only undamaged one she had. “That’d probably be best. I’m Sara, by the way.”

“Trudy,” she said, clearing the bar of used glasses. “I run this little joint.”

Sunny took a seat next to Sara as Trudy set glasses of fresh water in front of the three of them. “You remember that group of Khans that messed up your radio? Helena thinks they’re the same ones that went after Sara here.”

The angle of Trudy’s brow raised. “Really? What’d a group like the Great Khans want with you?”

Even Solomon was intrigued. He downed half his glass before looking at her with a mix of confusion and worry. “That doesn’t sound like Khan behavior at all, ambushing a random caravan and only taking the courier’s package.”

“I don’t think it was their idea.” Sara sipped from her water, savoring the cool freshness. It was just about high noon, and the room was only getting stuffier. “There was a guy in a black-and-white suit that looked like the ringleader.”

A light went off in Trudy’s expression. “A suit? Black-and-white, as in, checkered?”

All attention went to her. Sara nodded.

“I remember that fella. That was your group, alright.”

Everyone listened to Trudy recount the rowdy bunch that bustled through her saloon that evening three weeks prior. She said they came in through Quarry Junction to the north. When they were talking about where they were heading next, the suit hushed them up. Apparently, they couldn’t retrace their route north on I-15, but she wasn't sure why. She just knew that every merchant who’s come through for the past few weeks has been avoiding it as much as this group was.

“I thought I heard the gentlemen mention the Strip,” she said. “But to get there without getting on I-15 is a hell of a hike.”

“They’d have to head eastward and up Highway 95,” Sunny said.

 _Through Novac,_ Sara thought. She remembered that much, but not however she knew it.

Solomon’s forehead creased in thought. “I wonder what’s going on up north. That’s the route we were taking to head to New Vegas ourselves.”

“I wouldn’t chance it, honey,” Trudy said, sympathetic. “It could be anything, from radiation to big ol’ critters that take more bullets to kill ‘em than it’s worth. Hell, it could be controlled by those damn Powder Gangers, for all I know.”

Sara tilted her head. “What’s a Powder Ganger?”

As if on cue, the saloon’s front door slammed open. In the doorway stood a man wearing prison guard gear and a furious scowl. He sauntered into the room, only stepping back a sec when Cheyenne growled at him by Sunny’s feet. She told the dog to stay, keeping an eye on the newcomer while he scooted around the other patrons and planted his hands on the bar.

“I’m gettin’ real impatient,” he said, giving Trudy a menacing glare.

“Jesus, Cobb,” Trudy said, unimpressed. “Would it kill ya to open the door like a _normal_ person?”

He slammed his hands on the counter, making Sara visibly jump. Thankfully, he was paying her no attention. “I’m _done._ If you don’t tell me where Ringo is _this second,_ I’m gonna get my guys and make a bonfire outta this trash heap town.”

“Easy there, buddy.” Solomon stood up, pressing himself into Cobb’s personal space, backing him away from the counter. “I’m sure we can work something out. Let’s talk about it.”

He squinted at Solomon. “You wanna talk, _pal?”_

“Yes, actually. I’m sure we can come to a mutually beneficial conclusion to all this.”

That made him scoff and spit at Solomon’s feet.

“...Ew.”

Sara accidentally let out a snicker, earning a sharp, sobering glare from Cobb.

Trudy just sighed. “Lay off, Cobb, he’s not from around here. Either buy something or fuck off, I ain’t playing this with you today.”

Taking a moment to read the room and probably decide that he was severely outnumbered (whether counting Sara or not), he pointed a finger at Trudy. “Next time I’m here, you’d better have him on a silver platter. I’m not sayin’ it again.”

With that, he stomped away and made sure to slam the door on his way out, too. They were left in the silence, save for the jukebox singing in the other room.

Her heart was racing. She took a deep breath to calm her nerves. Solomon retook his seat next to her, placing a warm hand on her shoulder and smiling sympathetically. That worked even better, and she smiled back at him.

“That,” Sunny said, “is a Powder Ganger.”

“Ah. Are all of them as pleasant as him?”

Trudy laughed. “Hardly.”

 

* * *

 

It was getting on around dusk by the time Solomon was on his own in the saloon with Trudy, talking about Goodsprings and its sparse, surrounding communities. Talking with her was easy, although that might’ve been a prerequisite for her line of work.

Sara had left not long ago, sliding a few caps to Trudy in exchange for two bottles of water and two fresh helpings of grilled mantis. She’d slipped out the back, saying she was gonna go play cards with Ringo.

He waved after her as she left, soon falling back into the lull of a repetitive jukebox and pleasant conversation.

The sun had set completely when Helena walked in the saloon, carrying a radio, followed by Ludwig.

“Your radio should work now.” Her Romani accent became more pronounced with pride as she set the device on the counter and strode into the lounge to shut the jukebox off.

She was right. Trudy cheered when the raspy voice of Mr. New Vegas came spilling through its speakers. “Oh, God, thank you so much, dear! How ‘bout a round on me, on top of the caps?”

Ludwig took a seat at the bar. “Hey, sounds good to me!” He nudged Solomon with his elbow. “Up for a little contest, brainiac?”

Solomon laughed. “I’m good. Why not ask Helena?”

“‘Cause I wanna end up drunk, not dead.”

Helena sat beside Ludwig, placing her hat on the counter. A small smile played on her face, as if listening to anything but the jukebox was the best thing to happen to her. “A wise decision.”

Trudy slid them each a bottle of chilled beer. Even Solomon had to appreciate the luxury of a working refrigerator, something that was hard to come by this far south of the cities.

“Where’s Sara?” Ludwig asked.

“She went to play cards with Ringo,” Solomon said. Everyone knew where the man was holed up. It was a brilliant display of human decency that everyone had agreed to not tell Joe Cobb thus far. Or it showed how much they respected Trudy as the sort of leader of their town. He wondered how long that could go on for. “Helena told you what happened that night, right?”

He nodded solemnly. His icy blue eyes softened, showing a rare moment of serious empathy. “That’s a whole lot for a kid to go through.”

“From what I understand, she’s not actually a teenager.”

“I figured,” he said. “But everyone’s a young’un to me nowadays. ‘Sides, you seen the way she acts now. She’s so carefree that she _actually_ laughs. She might not be a kid, but she’s a _kid.”_

Solomon had to agree. When Cobb had showed up, she shrank down in her seat, eyes wide with fear, even after he left. Her hands had only stopped shaking after Solomon comforted her, and he didn’t expect her to let him like she did.

“I think,” Solomon started, “the courier we knew was a front. I think she was always like this, but just didn’t show it until she forgot she had to hide.”

Helena sipped her beer, glancing at the medic and back to the bottle. “Hide what, do you think?”

He shrugged. “It could be anything. An identity, a checkered past, a weakness… Heck, a lot of people act differently once you get to know them, but she wouldn’t let us that close before now.” Not like there was much to know anymore. She couldn’t tell anyone about herself, even if she tried.

“Think the amnesia is her new guard?” Ludwig mused. His beer was already gone, replaced by Trudy with a quick exchange of caps.

“Nah, I was there when she woke up. She was too disorientated to do anything crafty, much less put up a new exterior. She's… vulnerable, now.”

The music on the radio ended, giving way to Mr. New Vegas’ rustic greeting. He talked about traders being turned away at the Mojave Outpost, growing concerns of raiders, and the looming threat that everyone in the wasteland was growing increasingly aware of — Caesar’s Legion. He signed off, delving into another love song from another long-dead crooner.

For a few moments, no one said anything. They drank their booze, Helena hopping onto her second round. Solomon finished his one beer just as Ludwig finished his third, standing up.

“Well, don’t know ‘bout y’all, but two things are clear to me. First, what to do next.”

“Find the package,” Solomon said. That much was obvious. If the Strip was where the man in the suit might’ve gone, then they needed to head in the same direction.

Ludwig hummed in agreement. “And the second? Any guesses?”

At this, Helena looked at him fully, expression hard. “That it is going to be a dangerous journey.”

Ludwig fired a finger-gun at her, then pointed to Solomon and raised an eyebrow expectantly.

Realization dawned on him the moment after it did on Helena. “...That we can’t bring Sara with us in her condition.”

The second finger-gun went off. “Bingo.”


	4. Lights

******Goodsprings — Poseidon Energy Gas Station**

**October 27, 2281**

**21:08**

 

“There’s no way you’re not cheating.” Ringo threw his cards down as Sara slyly raked in her modest winnings. They agreed to keep the stakes low, but she was starting to feel bad at how much of his money she was taking.

“You’ve been watching me just as much as the playing field,” she said, dumping a small handful of caps into a pouch in her bag. “I just know how to play my cards right.”

He narrowed his eyes, throwing down a $5 NCR bill. “I got my eye on you, courier. Let’s go for another round, I know your tricks now.”

She smiled, matching his bet and shuffling her deck. They dealt their hands and took turns laying out their starting cards. His first stack reached a high enough value to trump hers, but she slid a King in there to sabotage it. He wasn’t as offensive a player as she was, so they both concentrated on building their caravans. As the game went on, unless she started drawing higher cards, it looked like it might not turn out in her favor.

And then she drew a Jack, let him try and sabotage her final stack with a King, and removed a card from that pile that brought her to a perfect value of twenty-six.

“Oh, come on!” He whined, glaring at her shit-eating grin. “I could’ve sworn I had that one! Your poker face is solid.”

Her head tilted as she slipped the money in with her previous winnings. “Really?”

“Yeah! I’m usually pretty good at spotting people’s tells.”

She thought for a second. “Like when your eyelids kinda twitch when you don’t get a card you need?”

He squinted at her as she updated her Pip-Boy’s cap counter.

“Or that you pay attention my stacks more when you’re planning on messing with ‘em?”

He failed to suppress a laugh, gathering up his cards. “Alright, alright, you got me beat. I’m gonna miss having a challenging opponent when I’m back on the road.”

She reclined against the crate behind her, sipping from her water. “When do you plan on heading out? I met Cobb today. Real charmer.”

He snorted, leaning onto the wall his mattress was flush against. “Isn’t he, though? I don’t know, honestly. He’s got guys all around the area, I don’t have a good opening to sneak out yet… How about you?”

“Hm?”

“When are you leaving Goodsprings?”

She capped her water bottle, staring pensively at it. She hadn’t considered leaving, not yet. Where would she go? She had no clue where she came from, or who might know that she could ask.

“Y’know, to go after the guys that did this to you?” He gestured at the left side of her head, concern knitting his brows together.

Her eyes blinked wide open, taken by surprise. “I… hadn’t thought about it.”

“I mean, it’s just an idea. But if I were you,” he urged, “I’d at least want to know why they went through all that trouble for one package.”

She gnawed on the inside of her cheek, picking at her fingernails. Her stomach tightened when she thought about it more. It _did_ seem like a lot of effort to steal a package. Finding them would be a huge undertaking.

But seeing the look on the suited man’s face the moment he sees her, alive and unburied?

The edges of her lips curled upwards. “You’re right. It’s worth a shot.”

She trusted Ringo. They shared a similar situation, having their caravans sacked and a man wanting them dead. Only difference is that her murderer thought he’d succeeded already. Joe Cobb was still prowling around, waiting to punish Ringo for the crime of escaping with his life.

There was a knock on the gas station door, followed by a gruff, “Hey y’all, it’s me.”

Ringo’s face brightened instantly, getting up to unlock the door and let Ludwig in. “Well, hello there, stranger.” He closed the door quietly while Ludwig leaned over the bar to wave at Sara.

She waved back, grinning. “Guess how many rounds I won against Ringo?”

His eyebrow angled upward. “More than a few?”

“Eight out of ten!” She bragged, head held high.

“She’s unfairly good,” Ringo muttered, resting on the counter beside Ludwig.

The lamplight played well off the caravaneer’s smile lines. “I’m real proud. It’s getting late though, you have a place to sleep?”

“Yeah, I’m crashing at Sunny and Trudy’s place. Rather not take up the only hospital bed in town.”

He nodded, pleased with the answer. “Good, that’s as good a place as any.”

“Yep! At least until we leave for New Vegas.”

The air grew silent as Ludwig cocked his head. His smile was still there, but his voice lost a little of its warmth. “What makes you think we’re going to Vegas?”

She stood from her seat on the floor, dusting off her pants and picking up her bag. “Oh, uh… I mean, Trudy said the man who shot me said something about The Strip. I figured we should find out if he headed there, that way we can get my package back.”

Ludwig sucked in air through his teeth, shaking his head. “We don’t know for sure if that’s where he went, kid.”

Her hands clasped behind her as she wilted, gazing at her feet. “I know, but…” She peered back up at him, hope written in her eyes. “It couldn’t hurt to try, right?”

“It couldn’t hurt to…!” He stopped mid-sentence, pinching the bridge of his nose with rising impatience. “Listen, the road to the The Strip ain’t exactly under the protective thumb of the NCR.” He held her eyes, talking with his hands to help explain it. “Once we hit the outpost, we took a risk, and it nearly got you killed. Don’t take anymore unnecessary risks, or you’ll get yourself killed for good.”

She crossed her arms, frowning. “I'll go alone if I have to. It's not like traveling with a caravan stopped me from getting two bullets in my brain, anyways.”

The tense air seemed to erupt. Ludwig turned away, rolling his eyes and throwing his arms up in agitation. She stood her ground, watching him lean a hand on his hip. His head was down, other hand covering his eyes. It brushed up onto his dark locks as he faced her again, staring at her right back, chin up. He was shifting his weight from one leg to another, trying to think of a counter-argument.

She was right… wasn't she?

Ringo had been watching from the sidelines, but decided he'd had enough. “Why don't y'all discuss this more in the morning?” he suggested. “We're all tired, it's been a long day, let's just sleep on it.” He touched Ludwig's arm, making their eyes meet. “Okay?”

They both let out a breath at the same time. “Okay,” Sara said, stepping around her friends. “See y'all tomorrow, then.”

As she opened the door, Ludwig stopped her. “Wait.”

With one foot outside, she turned and met his serious look.

“Just… don't leave before we talk again.”

She didn’t know how he knew that she was toying with the idea of ditching town by dawn. She pressed her lips together. “Okay. ‘Night.”

She closed the door behind her, hearing Ringo bolt it. He was right, she _was_ tired. She wondered why she even briefly considered starting a wasteland-wide trek as a wave of exhaustion washed over her. It was still warm outside, fortunately tamed by a cooler breeze. She found Trudy’s house through the onslaught of fatigue, letting herself in and locking the door. She undid her hair and braided it to prevent bedhead, stripped down to her underwear, and curled up in a sheet on the couch.

She was too sleepy for her constant headache to keep her awake for long. Getting worked up with Ludwig made it worse, but luckily, she slipped under the haze of unconsciousness within the hour.

 

* * *

 

The smell of food woke her up before the sun had a chance. She turned over gently, checking her Pip-Boy; getting used to sleeping in it was surprisingly easy. It was only about 5 AM, but a light was on in the kitchen.

Her headache was particularly persistent, so instead of trying to go back to sleep, she popped half a Med-X pill, redressed, and went to see what was going on.

“Oh, mornin’!” Sunny greeted. She was standing in front of the cooking range, holding a pan of frying gecko eggs beside a pot of hot grits. Cheyenne sat dutifully by her side, waiting patiently for scraps. “Sorry if I woke you. Want some grub?”

Sara rubbed her eyes. “Mmm. Yes, please.” She sat herself at the small kitchen table, drowsiness wearing off slower than she liked.

“So,” Sunny asked, “how did cards with Ringo go?” She brought over two plates with a ladleful of grits and two eggs each.

Sara snorted, digging in. “Ha, ‘Ringo-go.’ Oh, um, I don’t know, it went okay. Might’ve taken more of his caps than I meant to, though.”

They chatted in hushed tones about Ringo and his situation, eating their meager breakfast together. Sunny fed Cheyenne a bit of her eggs, affectionately calling her a pig since she’d already eaten her breakfast. Trudy was still asleep in the bedroom, so they cleaned their dishes and gathered up their gear quietly.

Sara didn’t have anything going on that day, besides avoiding confrontation with Ludwig, so she agreed to help Sunny make some healing powder. She knew what it was and what it did, but didn’t know the first thing about making it.

The three of them headed out into the warm morning air, knowing that it’d only get hotter from here. They passed a shack, which Sunny pointed out as the home of the town’s robot, Victor.

He was the same bot that she was told first found her in the graveyard. She wanted to meet him, but didn’t want Sunny to wait up for her. She’d have to take care of that later.

They slowed down as they closed in on the Goodsprings Schoolhouse. It was a small, dilapidated building surrounded by wire fencing. Sunny stopped, crouching behind nearby cover.

“See that?” She whispered. “Got some mantises crawlin’ ‘round in the grass. Fast little buggers. Think you can get ‘em from here?”

Sara aimed the varmint rifle she’d hung onto. Focusing closer, she spotted movement in the taller grass by the opening in the fence. Giant, blade-armed insects were jumping around, presumably hunting for their own breakfast.

“Xander root usually grows around there,” Sunny said. “Take those bastards out and we can grab ‘em and go.”

She took aim at the closest insect, controlling her breathing. The Med-X had done its job well; she barely registered her headache. Lacking that distraction, her concentration soared, and so did her first bullet — right between the mantis’ compound eyes.

Its entire head burst in a shower of fluids and exoskeleton.

They gave a cheer, sounding more like a battle cry as Sunny joined her in picking them off. The insects charged them, six of them in total after the first one fell. Cheyenne leapt into the fray, deftly avoid bug bites and going for their thoraxes. It wasn’t long before the area was clear.

The two girls stood. Wading through the destruction, they drew close enough to the schoolhouse to search the yard for Xander root.

“How's the head, darlin’?” Sunny asked.

Sara kept searching the ground, nodding to the headless mantis she first dropped. “Better than that guy’s.”

Sunny laughed. “Let's bring the poor feller to Doc Mitchell, he'll fix him right up.”

“You joke, but he would!” Sara said. “I took a little of the Med-X he gave me, it's working better as the pain gets less… fresh.”

Sunny hummed in agreement. “Try only taking that stuff when you absolutely have to. Real easy to build up a tolerance, then it's useless.”

Cheyenne was the one who eventually sniffed out the Xander root they needed; she was promptly rewarded with affection and a stick of jerky from Sunny's pack. The next ingredient was broc flower. They headed back onto the road and north, until reaching a hill just within eyesight of the town.

They crept up the incline, breaching its curve and finding the Goodsprings Cemetery.

“Okay,” Sunny said, “we got bloatflies all around the place. See if you can… what’s wrong?”

Sara lagged behind, eyes wide. Her heart rate bumped up before she fully processed why.

Sunny understood soon after. “Hey… you can hang back if you want. Can’t imagine you’d want to visit your own grave anytime soon.”

She shook her head, licking her lips and pushing forward. As much as she wanted to turn the other way and run, she ignored the sweat slicking her palms and took aim.

The chunky, stump-winged flies weren’t a problem. Sunny made stunning shots on their wings, allowing Cheyenne to pin them to the ground and finish them off. Sara managed to hit a couple, visibly losing the edge she had earlier.

After the bugs were dispatched, she followed Sunny into the graveyard, searching for the broc flowers they needed. She didn’t look at the hole in the ground she was dug in and out of. It wasn’t something she could handle yet.

“Ah! Got it!” Sunny exclaimed, ushering Sara over. They pruned a twiggy tree of tiny, white blooms until they were satisfied.

Stepping back, Sara’s attention was caught by the horizon. The sun was just starting to rise, bathing the atmosphere in a pinkish orange glow. The cemetery overlooked a dusty valley, dotted with big critters she was grateful to have a good distance between. Further beyond the rocky desert, she made out the shapes of tall buildings surrounded by a wall. The tallest was the most oddly shaped, growing thin in the middle and sprouting up into a round disc, topped with antennae. It gleamed as the sun climbed higher, reflecting off the faraway glass and casting long shadows throughout the wasteland.

Sunny stood beside her, flyaway hairs dancing in the warm morning breeze. “Pretty, innit?”

“It’s beautiful,” Sara murmured. “That’s New Vegas over there?”

“Sure is, in all its old world glory.” Her features softened. “There’s a lot goin’ on in the Mojave these days. All of it seems to circle back to the city.”

They stood, quietly watching the sunrise together. The gunfire had started getting to her head, and now it was sore despite the painkillers. It was more tolerable than yesterday, but the moment of peace was still much appreciated.

She wondered if the man in the suit really did go back to Vegas. She wondered if he’d be hunting her if she'd had the chance to escape, like Ringo did. At least she wasn’t in danger like he was. She had people looking out for her, and as much as the folks of Goodsprings cared about hiding him, they didn’t do much about deterring the immediate threat.

If Ludwig was gonna make her stay in Goodsprings, she might as well help one of the friends she had here. She’d want someone to do the same for her.

“Hey, Sunny?”

“Yeah?”

“I wanna help Ringo.” She looked at her hard. “I don’t think Joe Cobb is gonna leave Goodsprings alone without a fight. He has to be stopped.”

Sunny Smiles gave her the sunniest smile she’s seen yet. “I’m in. Let’s talk while we cook up some healing powder.”

 

* * *

 

The sun was high in the sky by the time Ludwig dressed and left the gas station. He and Ringo had spent all morning together, cuddling — _ugh,_ he hated that word — despite the rising heat.

Their conversation that morning left him in an unpleasant mood. He knew that Ringo had grown fond of the courier girl, but still didn’t understand why she had to be left behind in Goodsprings. Ludwig didn’t understand how _he_ didn’t understand. His blood was still simmering.

She was only three weeks recovered from a serious brain injury. The threats lurking across the Mojave were too dangerous. No, she (probably) wasn't a kid, but her demeanor since waking reminded him too much of one. They hadn’t even gotten that far outside of NCR territory before they ran into trouble. If anything else happened to someone in his caravan…

Ludwig shook his head. He reminded himself that this caravan was a loan from the Mojave Express. Just because he was leading one again didn't mean it was his.

He ended up at the Prospector Saloon. A good number of the townsfolk were talking amongst themselves, eating lunch and listening to the radio. Trudy was running the bar and kitchen, an easier task when it was too early for drinking.

Well, for most people, anyways. Ludwig took a seat at the bar one over from Easy Pete. The old man was sipping a glass of whiskey, neat, in no obvious rush.

“Hey, hun,” Trudy greeted him, wiping down the counter. “Whatcha havin’ today?”

He counted out a few caps. “Squirrel stew, if you got it, ma’am.”

She dropped his caps in the cash drawer with a smile. “Sure thing, darlin’.”

After watching her disappear into the kitchen, he caught the wizened, dark eyes of Easy Pete glued to him.

“What’s yer poison, Easy Pete?” He said, nodding his chin to the glass.

He raised it to his lips. “Scotch.” His voice was deeper and more gravelly than the Grand Canyon.

“Ah,” he replied, smiling. “More of a bourbon man, myself.”

He peered at Ludwig from beneath bushy, white eyebrows. “Hm. I can respect that.”

This wasn’t the first time they’ve had a conversation. Ludwig liked swapping stories with the man. Easy Pete talked a lot about his time as a prospector through both the West and the East. The New California Republic (or as Ludwig liked to call them, Idiots) taxed him on his profits and strictly regulate the explosives he used, so he kept his business going south and east as their territory expanded. He moved to Goodsprings once he quit the prospector life, content to farm livestock in his retirement.

“Won’t be long ‘til the NCR decides we’re a part of them,” Easy Pete said, “Don’t think I can pick up and move this time.”

“Rather them than the Legion, though, right?”

He scratched his wiry, white beard. “For everyone’s sake, yes. You said your old caravan was based out East, so you know they leave you alone in ways the NCR don’t. But I ain’t lookin’ to live under no slavers.”

Had he mentioned that? Right, he did. Working out east of the Colorado was something they bonded over. Kinda. “Ah, yeah. You can either turn a good profit or have a bureaucrat president.” Ludwig clicked his tongue and twisted his lips to the right in mock-thought. “Tough call.”

Easy Pete looked at him sternly. “You know what I mean, son.”

He gave him a slick grin. “Yeah, yeah, I know. Just playin’ ‘round.”

The door to the saloon banged open and in walked Sara with Sunny and her dog. Ludwig braced himself for a cold shoulder, but was greeted with a friendly wave instead.

“Hey! So,” she started, “I still wanna talk to you about heading out, but we’ll do that later.”

He blinked. “Uh… sure, what's goin’ on?”

Trudy emerged from the kitchen with his bowl of stew. “Here you are!” she said, placing it in front of him. “Hey, tumbleweeds, how goes the powder-craftin’?”

Sunny greeted her with a cheerful peck on the lips. “All done. How's your day, babe?”

The two held hands on the counter, chatting and smiling. They made a cute couple.

Sara sat beside him, taking a drink from her water bottle. “Okay, so, Ringo has been stuck here for a little while now.”

“Yeah.”

“And he can't leave with Cobb’s guys after him.”

“Right…” _Where_ was she going with this?

She sat up straight, putting on an excited smile. “What do you think about fighting back? All of us, standing up to the Powder Gangers?”

Ludwig didn't know how to respond. And neither did anyone else in the saloon, because everyone could clearly hear her, as the room was small and her selectively-lisped voice was loud. The resounding silence was almost impressive.

She looked around, suddenly noticing she had an audience. “It's… I mean, they're a threat to the town, too, and they ain't exactly open to compromise.”

“What'd I say about unnecessary risks?”

She just gave him an apologetic look.

He glanced around the room. Most faces were conflicted, unwilling to make a huge decision like that. Which, y’know, fair.

“No,” said Trudy. “Absolutely not. I can't ask people to risk their lives for an outsider. We're happy to help whoever we can, and we have.” She gestured to Sara, shaking her head. “But this is a whole ‘nother cazador nest we can't afford to poke.”

A few of the folks around them murmured in agreement. The only person that really needed to be convinced was Trudy.

Sara caught onto that. She placed her hand on the counter, palm up. “Trudy, do you think those men will really leave the town alone if you give Ringo up?”

She hesitated to answer. “Well, I… I can't know for sure, but…”

“If you give him up,” Sara continued, “they'll take your compliance as a sign of weakness. What'll make ‘em think you won't lie down if they try and take the town, too?”

Trudy looked away, forehead creased in thought. Sunny gently placed her other hand over their intertwined hands and squeezed.

“She's right,” Ludwig threw in. “Fellers like that don't settle for ‘satisfied.’ They'll keep takin’ ‘til there's nothin’ left to take.”

Sara beamed at his vote of confidence. Hell, it was the least he could do. Plus, she _was_ right.

A trend that had already begun to worry him.

“Okay,” Trudy relented. “You have a point. Anyone wanna join our little courier’s militia?”

One by one, hands went up, along with declarations of support and those-rotten-Powder-Gangers-we'll-show-them’s. The “ayes” went on until only a sparse few, including Easy Pete, were the unincluded minority.

“What's the matter, old timer?” Ludwig asked. “I bet that old dynamite supply could come in real handy.”

He chuckled, deep leather-like skin wrinkling exponentially. “No disrespect, but not every caravaneer has enough expertise to avoid blowin’ his own limbs off along with his target’s.” He brought his glass in for a sip.

Oh boy. He hated risking a namedrop in case the wrong person recognized him, but he hated sentences starting with “no disrespect, but” that went on to disrespect him even more.

“You’re right,” he said. “But my old caravan actually specialized in the use and sales of explosives. Surely you've heard of it? The Caravan der Vuur?”

Easy Pete paused middrink, eyes trained on him. He slowly lowered his glass. “No shit?”

“Ludwig van der Vuur,” he said, pronouncing it with a proper Dutch accent, “at your service.”

At that, Easy Pete chuckled again and raised his hand. “Fine, fine. Lemme show you my stash after lunch. I know it'll be in capable hands.”

“Thanks, Easy Pete.” He grinned and nudged an equally proud Sara. “Which means I'm in, too, kid. Hope you know what you're gettin’ us into.”

She drummed on the counter and jumped off her seat. “I do, too! Thank you so much!” Then, she leaned in. “That caravan name is both the best and worst pun I have ever heard.”

He pointed a fingergun at her. “That you can recall!”

She leaned back and reflected his fingergun, but scrunched up her nose and cringed. “Oooo, distasteful joke about my amnesia resulting from violent trauma, _but!_ ...True.”

“Fair. My bad.”

She was laughing, so that wasn't a conversation they needed to add to the list. He'd try to avoid that soft spot in the future.

“C’mon,” Sunny said. “I wonder how much it'll take for Chet to part with that new shipment of leather armor.”

They waved as they left in a flurry out the door, bolstered by their success. For now, Ludwig chowed on his hot stew and talked more with Easy Pete.

Now to wait for the next thing to go horribly wrong.

 

* * *

 

Helena disliked Chet. He was… what was the phrase... a punk-ass bitch.

“That is a ripoff,” she said, glaring through her shades. “I could buy five sledgehammers for the same price at The Hub.”

Chet sighed. “Then go to The Hub and buy ‘em. I gotta make a livin’ somehow, lady.”

The inside of the general store was stuffy and poorly lit. Its shelves weren't too bare but could stand to be more neatly organized. While it wasn't exactly top-of-the-line merchandise, it filled the need that a small town like Goodsprings had — trade.

Except Chet was too aware of that and knew he got to set whatever prices he pleased. It wasn't like he had competition in anything but food and medical supplies. She was this close to losing her patience and leaving when the front door opened.

“Oh, hey, Helena!” Sara said. “Wanna help us defend the town from Powder Gangers? We—”

“Yes,” Helena said. “I do. They are weak and cowardly. If they attack, we will destroy them.”

Sara froze in her tracks and blinked in surprise. “Oh. Okay.” Then, she laughed. “Shit, that was easy.”

The fed-up store clerk gave Sunny a dead-eyed look. “Are you kidding me.”

“‘Fraid not.” Sunny smiled confidently, hand on her hip. “Trudy’s on board, and word’s gettin’ to all the townsfolk. Even ol’ Pete is lendin’ a hand.”

Sara stood beside Helena at the counter. “We would really appreciate it if you'd pitch in too. Ammo, armor, anything would help.”

She gave him the sweetest look those big, doe eyes could give, but Chet just snorted and leveled with her. “This ain't a damn charity, buttercup.” The disdain in his voice sharpened with each word. “You wanna tussle with the convicts, fine, but if you ain't payin’, leave me out of it.”

The girl was taken aback. A look of hurt and confusion crossed her face. It was like she expected everyone to be as selfless as she was.

Or, now was, anyways.

“I thought you were a good businessman, Chet,” Helena said. When she crossed her arms and emphasized the trill in her R’s, people tended to listen to her more. “Because it sounds pretty hard to make a living as a dead man.”

He swallowed and glared at her. “You threatenin’ me, sister?”

She scoffed. “You are stupid, not dangerous. If the Powder Gangers beat us, I do not see them sparing you just because you are a coward as well.”

“Consider it an investment,” Sara continued, sunny disposition returning. “Your chances of keeping your shop runnin’ increase significantly by making a small donation of supplies.”

Chet looked between the two, beyond annoyed. But, a little surprisingly, his resolve withered. “Jesus, fine. What’d y’all need?”

Both Sunny and Sara sighed in relief. They listed a few things, like leather armor for the militia, a mini arsenal of smaller weapons, and surplus ammo.

They gathered a few things for themselves, including bits of leather armor that Sara added to her outfit. After they were done, she turned to Helena. “Anything you might need?”

She paused, then looked at Chet expectedly. His lips drew a thin line across his sweaty face. She waited until he closed his eyes, hung his head, and waved her off. “Fine, take it.”

She smirked, taking hold of the sledgehammer on display and hoisting it over her shoulder with one hand. “Much appreciated.” Then, she tipped her black Stetson at Sara, sliding down her shades just enough to wink over them. “See you on the battlefield, partner.”

Sara glanced away for a second, eyes wide and cheeks reddened. “Yeah, um, ye- you too!”

She exited the saloon, pretending not to hear Sunny whisper, “Holy hell, she's gorgeous.” She frowned, rolling her eyes. While it bugged her more when a man commented on her appearance, she could do without hearing it altogether.

She liked looking at pretty girls, but never wanted to be one. She knew better than that.

Her grip on her new piece of hardware tightened as she made her way to the well. She hoped the geckos were ready to help her practice with it.

 

* * *

 

“It's interesting that you say that,” Solomon said. “In my opinion, saliva is the grossest thing that comes out of people.”

Doc Mitchell leaned back in his chair. “Really? Spit?”

He propped his head against his knuckles, reclining on the doctor’s couch with his elbow on the armrest. “Out of all the things that naturally come out of the body, yeah. It's all viscous and germy and…” He shivered, sticking his tongue out and fake-gagging.

There were exactly two people in town that liked to talk science with Solomon, and one wasn't even human. If he didn't have a fun conversationalist around, he would resort to talking to himself.

He still did, of course, but only because vocalizing his thoughts was healthier than keeping them in.

Today, he found himself in the home of Doc Mitchell. It'd been a whole day since Sara was discharged, so it was as good a time as any to check in on the man. He was fine, but appreciated the company. Someone had to share lunch with him, he said, since he always cooked more than he ever finished.

The clock in the living room read about quarter to one when there came a knock on the door.

“I'll get it,” Solomon said, climbing off the couch before the doc could insist otherwise. He made his way down the hallway and opened the door to a freshly-armored Sara, accompanied by Sunny Smiles and Cheyenne.

“Solomon! Hi!” Sara said, surprised. “Wow, glad I didn’t have to go out of my way to find my whole caravan today.”

“Hey, how’re you doing?” A pang of anxiety shot through him as he let them inside. “Is everything okay? Do you need to see Doc Mitchell?”

She laughed. “Yeah, but just to talk.”

He followed them into the room where they greeted Doc. They all sat down on the couch at his invitation.

What she came here to discuss wasn’t what Solomon had in mind. She brought up Ringo’s situation with the Powder Gangers and wanting to take a stand against them. From seeing how she reacted to Joe Cobb yesterday, he wasn’t sure how she would deal. Actively engaging with the issue was… interesting.

“Are you sure about this?” Solomon asked. He was beside Sunny, petting a happy Cheyenne sitting on the floor between them. “Being up and about is one thing, but deliberately picking a gunfight…”

“I appreciate you looking out for me, but we’re not asking for permission.” She tried to give him a reassuring smile, undoing her braid. She let her purple curls free, pulling them to the side and patiently finger-combing them. “We’re going through with this. We just want to know if you can support us.”

Doc Mitchell was leaning back in his chair again, scratching slowly at his mustache. He let out a weary sigh after a moment. “I’m not thrilled, but I’ll pitch in a couple Stimpaks.” His eyes twinkled, hinting at a hidden swell of pride. “Yer a fighter, that’s for sure. Try to avoid another head injury, though.”

Solomon raised his eyebrows, mildly shocked at how easily he made peace with it. He didn’t even try to convince her otherwise. “You’re really okay with this, Doc?”

The doctor shrugged. “You can’t argue with this one and get real far. I’ve learned that much.”

He straightened his back. “Then I’m gonna help, too. Would you mind lending me some supplies from your doctor’s bag?”

“Sure thing, pardner.”

Sara got to her feet, grinning wider than the Colorado. “I can’t tell you how much this means. Thanks, y'all!”

“Wanna go tell Ringo?” Sunny asked.

“Sure,” she said. “Lemme just hit the loo real quick.”

While she left the room, Solomon sat on the floor next to Cheyenne in order to give her a proper, thorough petting. She licked his hand as he babytalked her, laying down and demanding belly rubs. Sunny and Doc talked a little more about their plan. It didn’t take long for Sara to reemerge.

When she did, Solomon caught a flash of concern on Doc Mitchell’s face — never a good thing to see. “You okay?”

Cheyenne immediately grew alert, ears standing up. His anxiety bubbled up as he looked at Sara. Her face was tense, sweat beading on her brow as she pushed her hair back.

“I'm...” Her eyes darted around several points, glazed over. “Y’all see those lights?”

He recognized what was happening just as Doc Mitchell did, but Solomon was already on his feet as her entire face went slack.

Her legs gave out, and she fell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading!! i would love if you left a comment or kudos, any feedback is appreciated!


	5. Silver and Cold

******Goodsprings — Prospector Saloon**

**October 3, 2281**

**00:03**

 

She wasn’t dead yet. Against all odds, Courier Sara wasn’t dead yet.

Solomon checked on her again today. Honestly, he had no right to be this worried. He didn’t know the first thing about her. She never even pretended to act friendly towards him, or anyone for that matter.

But he didn’t take it personally. It was his duty as a man of medicine to care for anyone who needed him. And right now, she needed whatever help she could get.

He thumbed at a small, needle-point scab on his wrist, remembering the night of the surgery. He had Doc Mitchell tap into his ulnar artery for a direct blood transfusion. He’d always considered his O-negative blood type a sign that he was supposed to be a medic, since he could donate to most anyone. The courier had already lost a lethal amount of blood by the time they’d found her.

Whatever guardian angel she had looking out for her did a damn good job of it. By all accounts, she shouldn’t have survived.

He downed the rest of his beer, just as the barkeep, Trudy, finished stocking the fridge.

“Another one, hun?” she asked.

A thought occurred to him. “What time is it?”

“Little past midnight, dear.”

“That means it’s October third?”

“Uh-huh.”

He smiled at her. “Yeah, I’ll have another. I just turned twenty-six.”

“Well then, happy birthday.” She smiled, uncapping a fresh bottle. “This one’s on me, long as you don’t pull that one for another year.”

“Deal.”

 

* * *

 

**Goodsprings — Doc Mitchell's House**

**October 28, 2281**

**13:04**

 

Solomon caught her before she hit the ground.

“Oh, shoot.” He gingerly lowered her, rotating her to lay on her side. “Okay. Pillow, please.”

Sunny handed him a folded up blanket, peering over the couch. “This okay? What's happenin’?”

“Yes, thank you.” He placed the blanket under Sara’s head. Her eyes rolled back into her head, lids fluttering rapidly. Every muscle in her body went rigid, her face an ashy grey, but she wasn't convulsing. He arranged her into the recovery position, ignoring the drool dripping down her cheek.

Doc Mitchell was already on the other side of the courier, looking at his watch.

It felt like an eternity before her limbs relaxed and her twitching, half-open eyes closed completely. Doc clocked it in at fifteen seconds.

“Okay,” he said. “Not too bad. Sunny, can you get some clean water?”

It was as much to aid Sara as it was to get a nervous, confused person out of the room. The last thing a person waking from a seizure needed was someone panicking in their face.

A few seconds later, she started coming to. Her eyes squeezed shut, slowly reopening. She groaned, clearly out of it, but her cheeks lost that ashy color.

“Where… ugh…” She was still pale, but she turned onto her back and looked at him. “Solomon?”

“Hey there,” he said, smiling and staying as collected as possible. “Do me a favor and stay laying down, just for a sec.”

Her eyebrows furrowed together as she lifted her head up enough to look at Doc. “...What just happened?”

“That was yer first seizure,” Doc Mitchell told her. “Don't worry, it's not unusual for someone who's missin’ a chunk of their brain.”

She swallowed, wiping the spit off her cheek. “Is it gonna happen again?”

He took a steady breath. “We can't know for sure. Take a minute to get yer bearings, first.”

She laid back down, still recovering. When Sunny returned with water, she sat back up with Solomon’s help, sipping slowly and controlling her breathing. Cheyenne laid down beside her, insisting on keeping her head on her lap. Having her pet the dog seemed to keep her calm.

“So that's what a seizure looks like,” Sunny mused. “Did it hurt?”

Sara shook her head. “Not really. All I can remember is coming out of the bathroom and hearing like… a buzzing. Like a loud lightbulb.” She paused, thinking. “I got the feeling that something was about to happen. And then I woke up on the ground.”

“Did you see anything?” Solomon asked. The color returning to her cheeks was a relief.

“I think… like, spots of light? Kinda floating all around the room.” She huffed, not quite satisfied with the description. “I don't know. It’s all… fuzzy.”

“That's okay,” he said, rubbing her back. “I think you can stand up. Sometimes they come in clusters, but you should be good for now.”

He helped her to her feet, holding her by the arms. She started coming back to her old self, growing confident on her feet as he let her go. Doc took his time instructing her on what to do next time the signs of a seizure come on again, if they ever do. The best course of action was to find some cushioning for her head and lay on her side once the warning signs showed up. The most likely way she would injure herself was the impact of a fall. Checking the time on her Pip-Boy before it started was a good idea if she could manage it.

“If they last more than five minutes, get to a doctor as soon as you can,” he said. His face was grave, clearly shaken by the event.

She nodded, taking the matter seriously. “I will. Thank you for helpin’ me, y’all.” She addressed both him and Solomon as she smiled, worn out but okay.

Solomon walked her and Sunny to the door. “You take it easy now, you hear?”

She smiled at him and, surprising him, went in for a hug. “I mean it, thank you.”

He hugged her tight, sensing her need for comfort. “Hey, don't sweat it.”

She pulled away, searching his eyes with her green ones. He was struck by how deep and vibrant their hue was. “Can you promise me something?”

He raised an eyebrow, waiting for her to continue.

“Could you not tell Ludwig about this?” She brought her hands together, picking at her nails. “He thinks trying to find my package is gonna be too much for me to handle. I don't want him thinking that I'll just slow him down.”

Ah, right. He had a feeling she wasn't gonna go along with the caravaneer’s plan. “If I'm being honest, I kind of agree with his idea.” Before she could protest, he raised a finger. “But… I don't think it's because he thinks you're a liability. We're just worried for your safety, Sara.”

She didn’t object, but her eyebrows knit together. “I know, I just… Look, we’ll talk about it later.” She followed Sunny and Cheyenne outside, but looked back at him. “I’m real lucky to have y’all protecting me, but I’m a big girl, promise.”

He chuckled at that. “I know. I’ll see you at the showdown, then.”

She beamed at him before jogging to catch up with Sunny, wild purple hair flowing behind her.

Whatever she had to hide before losing her memory couldn’t have been that bad. If this sweet girl was her true self, she couldn’t possibly have been capable of anything worth hiding.

He’d like to believe that just _one_ person in this world was as good as they appeared. But every person was human.

As much as he’d like to believe she had nothing to hide, he knew better.

 

* * *

 

Ringo was as bewildered as he was ecstatic about their plan.

“I don't know what possessed you to think this was a good idea,” he said. “But I'm honored you think I’m worth saving.”

The three of them were taking the time to clean their guns, or in Sara's case, relearn how to clean a gun. She only had her 10mm pistol and the varmint rifle, but it'd have to do.

Sunny gave her pointers on how to take her guns apart, clean them, check for damages, and put them back together. She also made sure she knew how to reload them, because relearning under gunfire was less than ideal. The more time they spent working on it, the more the whole weapons maintenance process came back to her. Her general knowledge must've been lurking somewhere in her poor, broken brain; she was just incapable of accessing it until something triggered the memory.

It took a good couple hours of repeating the motions for the process to feel natural. She strapped on her pistol’s leg holster, right within reach if she couldn't use the varmint rifle.

After about the thousandth time she had to push her hair out of her face, she asked Sunny for just one more lesson.

“Sure,” she said, amused. “You got a some bobby pins in that bag of yours?”

She had several, she discovered. Must’ve been a valuable resource if she had a habit of hoarding so many.

Sunny took down her sandy hair and demonstrated how she twisted it in a bun. After a couple tries, Sara replicated it to sit a bit higher and looser. It worked as a way to keep her hair out of an enemy’s grasp. Plus, she thought it looked really cute on Sunny.

Around the usual time Cobb paid the town a visit, Sunny and Cheyenne left to keep a lookout. If he came around, she would give a signal to Sara perched at the window.

She and Ringo snacked on pinyon nuts and packages of chips. Fighting on an empty stomach was never a good idea. Her headache had slowly returned since her episode at Doc Mitchell’s, so she decided to pop half a Med-X to sate it. With any luck, it would quiet down by the time the fighting started.

“Hey,” he said. “I have something for you.”

She tilted her head back, shaking the remaining chip crumbs from the bottom of the bag into her mouth. Crumpling it up and crunching loudly, she looked at him quizzically.

He fished out of his bag a pair of leather motorcycle goggles. “Here. You can wear it on your head or use it to protect your eyes from the wind. Either way, the strap’s thick enough to cover the worst of your scar.” Then, he grinned. “Plus it looks cooler than a strip of bandage wrapped around your head.”

She fawned over the goggles, inspecting them all over. “Ooo, they’re even adjustable!”

“Of course. They should fit securely without putting undue pressure on the injury.”

“Thanks, Ringo!” She swapped out the bandage for the goggles, adjusting them to sit right on her hairline.

“Consider it a thank you present,” he said. “You didn't have to help me, but you did.”

She shrugged, fine-tuning the strap. “If I didn’t, who else would?” While the bandage worked well enough for surface protection, the brown leather of the goggles was definitely more durable. She wouldn't have to swap it out every day due to wind and sand damage.

Ringo was a good person. The compulsion to defend him came out of nowhere at first, but now her compassion renewed in a blaze. She wanted to do everything she could to help him.

Not long after she resumed her watch by the window, Sunny gave the first signal — planting her hands on her hips. That meant Cobb was nearby.

She couldn’t see him from her vantage point, but Sara spotted some figures further down the road. Her fingers itched for her gun, something telling her that this was the time to take a shot. But she was too far away to land a hit without a scope, and what did she know about sniping, anyway?

No, really, what _did_ she know? She was burning to find out.

She rallied up Ringo just before Sunny turned to the gas station and waved them over. It was time to head out.

“You ready?” She asked him as they gathered up their gear and stood by the door.

He swallowed, looking as worried as he was excited to leave this place for good, one way or another. “As I’ll ever be.”

Following their plan, he raised his arms behind his head as she pressed the muzzle of her rifle to his back, making sure the safety was on. Then, she opened the door and they walked out into the windy desert.

The sun was on the cusp of setting as they walked downtown. Distant voices rose hot through the air, muffled by the Mojave breeze kicking up. As they grew closer, Sara caught in her peripherals the townsfolk, Easy Pete and Solomon included, in their hiding places. It soon became clear that Joe Cobb, standing in front of the saloon with Trudy, Sunny, and Cheyenne, was unaware of the trap he’d walked into.

She kept her face a picture of stoicism, daring to make eye contact as Cobb looked proudly upon his prize. He paid her no mind as he took one step towards Ringo.

“Hold on,” Trudy said, authority ringing hard. “Pay upfront or it’s no deal, Cobb.”

He looked back at his gang, eight more ruffians like himself. They were equipped with lots of dynamite, some melee weapons, and few firearms. She began to doubt herself. What if the townsfolk weren’t enough? What if the Powder Gangers were too much to handle?

Her fears were quelled when she spotted Ludwig a few yards back, gaining ground as he flanked them. He’d slipped past unnoticed, stocked with at least half as many explosives than they all had combined. She kept her eyes on the Powder Gangers, careful to not blow his cover.

Cobb rolled his eyes, disgruntled at the momentary delay of reaching his goal. “Here.” He tossed a small sack of caps at Trudy’s feet before once more beelining for Ringo.

“Wait,” she demanded once more, stopping him in his tracks. “You don’t think I’m gonna let you have him before I count these, right?”

A vein visibly twitched in Cobb’s temple as he whipped back around. “You’re shittin’ me, right? Stop jerkin’ my chain, you goddamn-”

None of the Powder Gangers heard the distinct sparking of a dynamite wick burning down in time, but maybe that was because they weren’t expecting it. Sara was, and so was the rest of the town, because the moment the first explosion erupted, everyone on her side sprang into action. Two more blasts followed, and then another, as Ludwig lobbed dynamite into the fray, strategically surrounding the convicts with smoke and dust. As Ringo pulled his gun and ducked for cover, Sara sprinted to the arrangement of crates that allowed her to climb up to the roof of the Prospector Saloon. From this angle, she was safe from most of the fighting, so she took aim with her varmint rifle and relearned what she knew about sniping.

Helena, already neck-deep in the fight, swung her sledgehammer with deadly accuracy. At close range, they couldn’t use their dynamite against her. Ludwig was still tossing explosives from his vantage point, ready to deal with the first guy to notice him with a pair of brass knuckles. Fighting right along with them was Cheyenne, incapacitating anyone without ankle protection. Everyone else shot at the Powder Gangers not engaged with the brawlers, forcing the thugs to deal with multiple fronts of attack.

Without a scope, aiming proved a challenge, but her headache was reduced to a whisper on the side of her skull. Sara spotted a man behind cover that the townsfolk on the ground couldn’t hit. He was armed with a crowbar, and just as he saw Trudy start to reload her rifle, he ditched his spot and made a mad dash towards her.

Instinct told her to empty her magazine, and so she did. No one else had seen him until he was flat on the ground, bleeding out.

She reloaded and focused on her next target.

Solomon had let out some shots with a laser pistol, but soon he was running between cover, administering Stimpaks and bandages where needed. Some of the townsfolk had taken hits, but no one was down for the count. At least, not yet.

She should’ve known she’d be targeted sooner rather than later. She heard someone climbing to the roof in time to make a quick roll away, avoiding a shotgun blast to the ground she'd been occupying. Scrambling to her feet, she was greeted with a bloody-faced Joe Cobb quickly readying his next shot.

She dove to the side, towards the back of the building, narrowly dodging another buckshot. She barely had time to take aim before firing twice and missing once, getting him in the arm. He howled as he let go of his shotgun, aiming it again haphazardly with one hand. She kept backing away, ducking as his unstable shot went high.

Her heart raced with adrenaline as she emptied the rest of her magazine. She got him in the shoulder and arm again, but nothing seemed to slow him down. Her hands fumbled for a second with the reload.

“Stay! Still!” he shouted, tossing his shotgun away in favor of a pistol.

Avoiding a shotgun spread was easy. Avoiding a bullet, she already knew too well, wasn’t.

She had only just brought her rifle back up when he let off several rounds. The leather armor she wore protected her from the bullets that hit, instead converting them into bighorner kicks. The wind was knocked out of her as she fell to the ground, wheezing. Her rifle escaped her grasp, landing outside of arm’s reach.

“This was _you,_ wasn’t it, brat?!”

Without missing a beat, he whipped the grip of his pistol across her cheek, more out of fury than immediate intent to kill.

“These limp-dicked fucks were too scared to take a stand! Then suddenly _you_ show up and they figure out where their balls are?!”

So, he'd noticed her existence after all. Her cheek throbbed, even through the Med-X, as she looked up at him.

She froze, meeting the barrel of his pistol directly in her face. For a second, the moon was full and he wore a checkered suit.

“Well, guess what?” Cobb pulled the hammer back one more time. “You lose, girlie.”

_Sorry, girlie._

_It’s lookin’ real bad for you, girlie._

_Rise and shine, girlie._

_Truth is?_

A laser beam nailed him square in the back of his neck. He yelled, and, in the split-second window of distraction, her body surged with a fierce, foreign energy. One of her arms batted his to the side as he squeezed the trigger. Air around the bullet rushed past her as she twisted his wrist and rose to one knee, pulling him down and forcing him to disarm. In the same motion, her other arm drew her pistol, pressed it into his gut, and unloaded the entire magazine without hesitation.

As quickly as it happened, it was done. Everything grew still. His body went slack. She shoved him to the side, away from her, and just stared, panting.

He wasn’t wearing a checkered suit.

She looked at the sky.

The sun was still out, ready to set.

And then Solomon’s concerned face was right in front of her, gently taking her gun away, saying something in a calming voice.

She blinked rapidly, overcome with the feeling of waking up even though she wasn’t asleep. Her eyes were wet, but she wasn't crying. Solomon’s lips began to match the noise buzzing in the air around her. There were no more gunshots, no more explosions.

“It’s okay, it’s over, we won,” he said, his voice a honeyed anchor to the physical world. “You’re okay, you’re safe, I got you.”

She closed her eyes and leaned forward. Her forehead rested weakly on his shoulder as he held his steady, dark hand over her trembling, bloody one.

 _He was going to kill me,_ she thought. _I was going to die. I'm not dead yet._

She stood with Solomon’s support, finding her knees too shaky to depend on. He helped her towards the front of the building to meet with the rest of the town.

_How did I do that?_

 

* * *

 

Sara sat in a booth in Prospector Saloon, holding cold sarsaparilla bottles against her cheek and her chest where Cobb’s pistol and bullets landed. The Med-X started to wear off after a couple hours, and the soreness from both the fight and her head finally caught up with her. Her armor sat on the floor next to her messenger bag, dutifully unpunctured. Doc had diagnosed her with a couple bruised ribs — nothing that wouldn’t get better on its own. Not ideal, but much better than being riddled with lead. Again.

Anyone who was seriously injured needed Doc’s attention more, and she was all too happy to relinquish it. God only knows she’d already taken up more than her share. Solomon wanted to help him, but he insisted he had it covered. No one looked like they were knocking on the reaper’s door tonight.

As much as she knew Solomon wanted to lend a hand, she saw how his face relaxed with relief. He sat across from her at their booth, digging into a hearty bowl of bighorner stew.

Ludwig and Helena, although certainly battered from being in the midst of the fighting, ate and drank jovially with the rest of the townsfolk by the bar. The room was filled with anyone not too exhausted to celebrate the town’s victory. Ringo and Sunny were having a drinking contest, and Sunny was clearly winning.

Even Trudy was in a good mood, dishing out orders in a whirlwind. Conversation flowed through the saloon, infecting everyone with the pride of a battle well-fought.

Sara ate her squirrel-on-a-stick and instamash, barely tasting them. She couldn’t quite match everyone else's energy. It’d been a long day. She was wiped out.

“I’ll tell ya,” Ringo announced. “I don’t know what I woulda done without this girl over here.” He gestured toward Sara, roping her into the party. “She’s a goddamn angel, I tell ya! I’d be feeding the crows without her!”

Despite her fatigue, she grinned, flippantly waving him off. “Nah, everyone made it happen. I just went and asked ‘em.”

Sunny nudged him with her elbow. “Yeah, come on, fella. We all pitched in to save your sorry hide!”

He laughed. “I know, but damn! Joe Cobb ain’t a man I woulda gone toe-to-toe with!”

“I don't blame you,” she snorted. “Guy was an asshole.”

Everyone knew that Sara was the only one on that roof. When Solomon directed them up to his body to loot and dispose of, word got around that she was the one that did him in. Some folks had taken the time to thank her or applaud her bravery. Whatever she thought of it, she had to admit that she was a little more liked around here, now that she wasn't some comatose courier using up their only doctor’s resources.

If Solomon noticed her avoiding eye contact, he didn't acknowledge it. “Hey, I helped too!” he said. “You guys were having all the fun with the little guys while we handled the big bad!”

Helena tore the last chunk of gecko meat off her kebab. “They _were_ very small men. It is only fun when they are at least as tall as you.”

“The last of ‘em went runnin’ when y’all showed up and their leader didn't.” Ludwig smirked, swirling his glass of bourbon in an easy circle. “Wish I coulda seen a scrawny pipsqueak like you take down someone half a foot taller.”

“I'm not a pipsqueak!” she pipsqueaked.

“You're the shortest one in the room, Courier,” Sunny said behind a snicker.

Her cheeks burned, knowing full well that was true. “That's just ‘cause… uh…”

“You're still growing?” Solomon mused, a mischievous smile playing on his lips.

She pointed her squirrel-on-a-stick at him. “Don't you start!”

Their good-natured teasing raised her spirits. It put a real smile on her face, until the conversation turned to the caravan’s imminent departure.

“I think I’ll be heading up after y’all leave to the Crimson Caravan Company tomorrow,” Ringo said. He batted his eyelashes at Ludwig. “Sure you don't wanna stick with me a little while longer, van der Vuur?”

Ludwig paused, midsip, eyes flicking briefly over to Sara. He took a drink and set his glass down carefully. “No, we'll be fine.”

Sara drew her brows together. “Wait, you're heading out tomorrow?”

He refused to meet her eyes, going, “Mhmm,” as he took another drink.

“Well… I'm coming along now, ain't I?”

Helena pointed her bare kebab skewer at her. “Nothing has changed. We would have left today if it did not mean leaving you to fight the convicts.”

“But I can hold my own,” she insisted. “I can handle myself! It's fine!”

Helena’s cool stare remained unconvinced. She looked to Solomon for help, but he was incredibly focused on his stew.

“Solomon,” she pleaded.

He met her gaze meekly before training his eyes on her scar. “You still need to recover, Sara. I don't need to tell you why.”

Her mouth snapped shut, remembering her seizure at Doc Mitchell’s earlier. No one would look her in the eye, their final word of “No” a clear end to the conversation.

Her jaw clenched. She closed her eyes, breathing once through her nose before standing abruptly. “I'm going for a walk,” she muttered, leaving some caps on the table. She gathered up her bag, shoving her armor and one of the sarsaparilla bottles inside as she stormed out the back door.

Out in the moonlit night, her feet carried her wherever they felt like going. She was a courier, so she trusted her feet to take her where she needed to be. Walking was familiar. She had to have done a lot of it.

She didn't realize she had a destination in mind until she started climbing the hill to the Goodsprings Cemetery. Her ribs ached with the effort, but she soon stood on the edge of the graveyard, slowly taking in the area.

She drifted through the cemetery, reading each individual grave markers. There was a moment in time when she was in the same boat as the names she read. Verl, “Fearless Dave,” Danielle “Mutant” Melilli… There was even a marker for someone named Sara “The Bear” Friedman.

Even if there wasn’t the marker for her grave, at least her name would’ve been here. Or, her courier name, anyway. Her real name would’ve been lost forever.

She paused at Whiskey Snakes Jr. resting by the water tower. Someone had placed an ornament in front of his gravestone, a small plastic dome with a little town and cartoon man inside. It was labeled “Goodsprings.” She recognized the figure as the same one on her Pip-Boy. When she picked it up, she found that it was filled with water and little bits of plastic that swirled around at the slightest motion. She smiled, pocketing the trinket and replacing it with her bottle of sarsaparilla as a show of gratitude. It was bad luck to take things from someone dead and buried without leaving a gift, right?

Her eyes kept returning to the only vacant hole in the ground. It was on the northern end, by the broc flower tree and a _Keep Out_ sign that warned against entering the valley below. The wind had partially filled it in with sand and dust, but it was still there.

She walked towards it, standing at the bottom edge. It was just shy of two feet deep, a hasty job done by people clearly in a rush. She breathed deeply, gazing into it, before raising her eyes to rest on the distant lights of New Vegas. The city was a veritable beacon, a light in the darkness that shone as brightly as the moon and stars. She stared wistfully at it, overcome with longing to see it up close, to know what it was like on the inside.

Behind her, the mechanical noise of a wheel on dirt approached her. When she turned, she was surprised to see a tall robot scooting towards her, the happy face of a cowboy on his screen.

“Well, fancy meetin’ you out here, pardner,” he greeted, stopping a few feet away from her. “Ain’t that view somethin’?”

She smiled, laughing through her nose. He was a big thing, his wide upper body acting like shoulders sitting on a narrow frame, all balanced on a single, large wheel. “Are you Victor?”

He raised one of his bendy arms, a blunt, three-pronged claw at the end spinning around as a form of waving. “Sure am, missus! If I’m not mistaken, you must be the courier I dug outta here a few weeks ago.”

She stuck her hand out. “Courier Sara, at your service. Thanks for that, by the way.”

“Aw, shucks, don’t mention it.” He gently grasped her hand with his metal claw, shaking it up and down stiffly. He had very good manners. She wondered if that was standard for whatever kind of AI he was. “I take it you’re headin’ out to the big city soon? One of your friends told me you got your package stolen from you.”

Her face fell, turning back around to look at Vegas. “Unfortunately, I don’t think so. My caravan says I still need to recover from the whole getting-shot-in-the-head thing.” He wheeled up next to her. “They said you were the one that found me here first. How’d that happen?”

“Oh, I was out for a stroll much like tonight when I saw those rascals gathered ‘round here,” he said. “Looked a shade suspicious, so I laid low until they left. Saw you thrash under the dirt and stick a hand out, so I reckoned, hey, why not dig you up to see if you’d make it?”

She looked down into the grave. There was no memory of being in there, but something inside her must’ve been fighting for life. Even when she was unconscious, she did everything she could to survive.

“Anyway, that’s when your pals showed up and dug you the rest of the way out. We hauled you back to the Doc as fast as we could.” He tilted his flickering screen down towards her grave. “I’m sure they mean well, but it’s a darn shame they don’t think they need you.”

Some weird, white bits of rock inside the open grave reflected Victor’s light. Curiously, she stepped inside to get a better look, finding their smooth shape to be out of the ordinary. She sifted through the windblown sand, picking them out and holding them up to the light. “What’d’ya mean they need me?”

They were soft to the touch. Definitely not rocks. A memory flashed in her mind, a picture of the man in the suit snuffing out a cigarette with his shoe.

“What I mean is,” Victor said, “how’re they gonna find your lost package and deliver it without their courier?”

She gathered up several white cigarette butts, five in total, all burnt right down to the filter. They each had a distinctive silver ring around them, underlining blue cursive text.

“Seems to me like they can’t finish the job if their courier ain’t accounted for.”

He was _waiting_ for her to wake up.

He had to make himself look her in the eyes before he killed her. She had begged him not to, but he didn’t care. He shot her twice — a restrained, defenseless girl who had done nothing to him. She brushed her fingers over the goggles strap covering her scar.

He was going to kill her. She was going to die, but she wasn’t dead yet.

She wanted him to know he failed.

She gasped, twisting around to look at Victor’s cowboy face. “Victor, you're a genius!”

His frame bounced a couple times on his wheel. “Don’t know 'bout that, but I'm awfully flattered. Courier work ain't my specialty or nothin'.”

Being a courier was certainly _her_ specialty. She knew a lot about it. Better yet, she was _remembering_ what she knew about it.

That foreign energy from before emerged from her gut. Whatever had made her turn her head at the last second, made her expiring body thrust a hand out of her grave, made her fill a man’s abdomen with bullets — it was a force that was keeping her alive. It felt cold, ambitious, and strong.

She dumped the cigarette butts into the same pocket in her bag as her delivery order. Maybe this was her caravan’s first time working with the Mojave Express. But she knew the rules, and she remembered why she needed to go with them if they wanted to get paid.

She stepped out of the grave, leaning on the makeshift fence, eyes gleaming towards Vegas’ blinking lights. The tower with the disc on top glittered above the rest, feeding into the determination that brimmed within her.

“So,” she said, “guess I’m going to Vegas, after all.”

“That’s the spirit, pardner!”

She grinned at him, giving him a pat beside his screen and walking next to him back down the hill towards Goodsprings.

 

* * *

 

The two heads of his brahmin mooed at the same time as Ludwig adjusted their pack saddle. His eye was caught by the town’s robot, Victor, moseying around the pathways as usual. The bot sort of freaked out the brahmin, but he paid him no mind as he wheeled towards his shack. He was weird, but harmless.

The sky was a dull blue-grey, fading into a light yellow eastward. He guided his brahmin towards the saloon, tying her to a nearby post while he took a seat on the porch rocking chair.

Helena was the first to arrive. She was ready to go, black Stetson on her freshly-shorn head and shades on her prominent nose. She had her sledgehammer strapped to her back, her old baseball bat on her hip. They didn’t say anything, maybe because they were keeping quiet. Maybe there was just nothing to say.

Sunny, Cheyenne, and Ringo showed up next, insisting the night before that they had to see them off. Nobody objected, as long as they agreed not to bring a certain courier with them.

He didn’t want to admit that he felt bad. The kid had proven herself battle-ready, making it clear that she wanted to stick with them, but…

Day broke and Solomon still hadn’t arrived. He was a lot more sympathetic towards Sara, but Ludwig knew he understood why she had to stay put. He began to worry that he’d changed his mind and gotten her just as he came ambling down Doc Mitchell’s hill with only the good doctor in tow.

“Hey, sorry I’m late,” the medic said. “Ready to head out?”

“You usually crash with the robot,” Ludwig pointed out.

Solomon blinked. “Oh, right. I went in there last night and Sara was already passed out on the mattress. Doc had a vacant couch, so I slept there instead.”

As if summoned by the mention of her name, Ludwig caught sight of a head of purple hair moving towards them from the direction of Victor’s shack. He swore under his breath, rising to his feet, ready to talk her out of coming with them again.

Sara yawned as she approached them, armored up, with an easy-going smile plastered on her face. “Mornin’, y’all. Got up real early to ditch town, huh?”

“Yeah, well,” Ludwig said. “The more daylight we get in, the more ground we cover.”

She passed them and sat down on the saloon’s steps beside Cheyenne and Sunny, running her hands through the dog’s fur. “That’s fair. I just came to wish y’all luck on your trip.”

Helena glanced at Ludwig, then back to the courier. “You are okay with staying behind, all of the sudden?”

She shrugged. “Not much I can do about it, y’know? Y’all were right, my injury is too fresh. It’s an unpredictable factor, and I wouldn’t want to make the journey any more difficult than it has to be.”

Something was up. Ludwig squinted at her, unwilling to believe her stubborn streak had ended. Still, her face was the picture of sincerity, and until she let on otherwise, he’d play along. “Alright. Well, glad you see things our way.”

Solomon stood beside him, worry tensing his brow. “We’ll be sure to write to you, okay?”

Sara smiled. “You’d better. Don’t forget to tell me how you’re gonna turn in the package without the delivery order, will ya?”

...Oh, _goddammit._

He recalled the piece of paper stowed in her bag, wondering why he didn’t pocket it the night she was shot. Everyone was silent as a warm breeze kicked up. Sara’s smile grew wider, her two front teeth overlapping her bottom lip. Her bold green eyes looked at each of them as she waited for a response.

Ludwig opened his mouth to speak, but found he didn’t know what to say. He shook his head, licked his thin lips, and laughed. “Kid, you’re too funny.” He held out his hand, beckoning with his fingers. “Hand it over.”

She stood up on the porch, crossing her arms. “In order for a third party — including hired caravan workers — to turn in a Mojave Express delivery order, they must have valid proof that the courier is unable to, in the event of death or incapacity. It's a protective measure against theft and fraud.” She gestured to herself, holding her chin high. “I’m alive. I can walk and defend myself. And I’m the only one authorized to deliver _my_ package.”

His bemused smile fell. Her eyes burned with an intensity he hadn’t seen since before she was shot. Even with her S’s lightly curbed by a lisp, her confidence gave her voice a ruthless authority. Seems like she still had a bit of her old self lurking somewhere under that demure disposition.

“Alright,” Helena said. “Come on then.”

“Makes sense to me,” Solomon said, smiling just as wide as the courier.

Ludwig sighed, then nodded. Despite himself, a proud smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

Their send-off committee gave them a few meager supplies for the road. Sara and Solomon hugged everyone goodbye, including the mutt, who gave them plenty of kisses for the road.

Doc Mitchell gave Sara a bundle of blue and yellow fabric. “I knew you’d show up. Was my late wife’s,” he said. “Yer gonna need something to protect you from the sun more than that youngster getup.” She thanked him, giving him the longest hug out of anyone.

“Head south towards Primm,” Sunny said to Ludwig. “Whatever’s up the road north is bad news. Plus, you can talk to the Mojave Express office there for more info on that package of yours.”

Helena clapped her on the shoulder, the closest thing to a hug she’s given maybe anybody ever. “You take care, Sonora.”

With his brahmin’s leads wrapped around his hand, Ludwig guided his caravan down the road. Leaving this early, they would arrive at Primm before the sun even thought about setting.

Sara walked next to him, glancing at him every so often. After the fifth time, he arched an eyebrow at her. “Something on your mind, kid?”

“No, I’m just…” She chewed on her lower lip, piecing together how to phrase what was eating at her. “I heard a lot about the conflict between the NCR and the Legion in the Mojave. Were you worried that’s what was gonna be a threat to me?”

He looked at her, then back to the road. “It sure didn’t make me feel better about taking you anywhere near that shitstorm. So, yeah, I guess.”

“Well, don’t worry about that.” She smiled at him warmly. “I’d rather not get involved with either group if we don’t have to.”

He laughed, ignoring his horror at the mere _idea_ of meddling in NCR-Legion affairs. “As if I’d let you, brat.”


	6. Every Card's a Wild Card

******Primm — The Mojave Express Office**

**September 27, 2281**

**20:46**

 

Night fell on the Mojave, but the temperature had not. Summer’s dying cry rang through the desert by the time they passed the outpost. Helena was accustomed to walking across cracked, dusty ground in sweltering heat. The rest of her caravan was sorely less so.

“We're still on-schedule,” Ludwig said, melting into his chair. “We can lay low during the day tomorrow and head for the Strip at sundown.”

They sat together in Primm’s Mojave Express office. The place doubled as the office head’s house, lined with filing cabinets up front and furnished as a living space in back. Solomon was by the front counter, bent over some dinged-up robot that didn't seem any less deactivated than when they arrived yesterday. They hadn't gotten a full day of rest since leaving the Hub, and the sustained march into the Mojave left them needing it.

“Does the courier mind waiting until evening to leave?” Helena asked. Last time she saw Courier Sara, the girl had taken to climbing the town’s rollercoaster. She imagined that's where she was now.

“If she did,” the caravaneer said, “she didn't mention it. Just shrugged and said ‘Sure.’”

A spark shot out from the spherical bot, causing Solomon to yelp and jump back. Helena rose to inspect the machine as the startled medic caught his breath, hand over his chest. She peered inside the hatch he was messing around in. The whole chassis was small enough to encircle in your arms, affixed with several long antennae. It was in rough shape, its casing battered, covered in stickers and a rusty license plate. The internal components faired little better. Someone had shot it down, the bullet punching clean through, ruining some of its servos and gyroscopes.

“It is no use,” she said. “Some of the wires need to be replaced, and a couple modules are damaged beyond repair. Among other issues.”

Solomon sighed, eyes casting downwards. His deep brown forehead shone with sweat, although they'd long since stopped walking. “Maybe that garage behind the casino has what it needs?”

Helena scoffed, seating herself back at the table with Ludwig. “If they had sensor modules around here, they have already sold them for caps.”

“Why're you so interested in that piece of junk anyways?” Ludwig asked.

“Are you kidding? Do either of you have any idea what this ‘piece of junk’ is?” he said, giving air quotes at the offending label.

“Besides a waste of time?”

Solomon smiled and shook his head. “It's Enclave tech. The Elder of my town dealt with them  _ waaay _ before the NCR even stepped foot in Navarro.” He resumed his place beside the bot, a kernel of admiration planted in the look he gave it. “I bet this little guy has info that she would love to know.”

Helena rested her chin in her hand, elbow propped on the table. “You have mentioned your Elder before. She trusts you to handle such important information?”

“I mean, I should hope so,” he said, laughing. “I’m gonna be her son-in-law someday.”

 

* * *

 

**The Mojave Desert — South of Goodsprings**

**October 29, 2281**

**10:29**

 

Traveling on the open road again after their month-long break was more of a relief than Ludwig thought it’d be. He'd been itching to get on the road for weeks, and with the courier up and moving, there wasn't anything to stop him.

But that didn't mean there was nothing to slow them down. In this case, it was the courier herself who wanted to make detours. He didn't actually have a problem with it. Loot was valuable, even if it spent more time — especially since they didn't have the package. No one was gonna try and steal what was already stolen.

Besides, the way Sara poked through every abandoned shack, scouring each place until she found something interesting, was like a kid in a candy shop. She brought all kinds of junk to them, asking which things were valuable or not. Most were definitely junk, but she was good at flushing out small treasures.

One such treasure was caps, and specifically, Sunset Sarsaparilla caps with little blue stars on the inside. He didn't know if they were actually significant, but everyone deserved something to call unique, right?

She found one at a shack they investigated a few hours ago, and another one at some abandoned trailer she spotted up a slope past Goodsprings Source. She showed him her Pip-Boy, pointing out how the compass on the screen marked points of interest with little triangles. Ludwig watched the brahmin while she snooped around inside. The other two had hung back to help out a guy whose girlfriend was pinned to a ridge by geckos. A radio was still on inside the trailer, belting out a tinny country song he didn't recognize.

She presented the cap to him, along with an armful of junk. “I found another one!” she exclaimed. “And a bunch of things I didn't see at the skydiving place!”

He couldn't make heads or tails of the hardware she scavenged, but took interest in a book she found. “‘The Wasteland Survival Guide,’” he read before flipping through the pages. It was a thick, hardcover copy of tips and tricks to avoid perishing in the wastes. It was in great condition, too. “I’d’ve taken this for Pre-War stuff if it didn't talk about molerat bites and radiation sickness.” He handed it back to her. “Why don't you up your survival rate and skim through this while the others catch up to us?”

They took a break, lounging in the otherwise ghosted trailer. After almost an hour, he caught sight of Helena in her black Stetson making her way towards them, Solomon close behind. She had fresh blood painted on her armor; she didn't seem hurt herself, so it must've been the geckos.

They regrouped at the lone trailer, where they found Sara snoring nasally, book shielding her eyes from the light. Guess it wasn't the most interesting read.

Solomon roused her while Helena inspected the pile of junk collected near the radios. One was now playing the slow tune of  _ In The Shadow Of The Valley. _ “This is the treasure our courier unearthed here?”

Ludwig nodded. She picked through it, pocketing a few pieces she deemed valuable. There was hardly anything at the last place she'd bother taking. He had no idea what her criteria was, but as long as she was carrying the extra weight, he didn't mind.

“How'd it go finding that guy's girl?” he asked. 

Helena just snorted. “There was no girl, just a supply stash. That coward did not have the guts to fight through the geckos to get it, yet he assumed drawing a gun on people who did would go well.” She spat a word from her native tongue into the dirt, shaking her head.

“Oh my God, you should've seen it,” Solomon said, joining the conversation with a sleepy-eyed courier. “One minute he's drawing his gun and bragging about how smart his plan is, and the next, he gets a bat upside the head!”

Sara yawned. “Why didn't he just ask? Y'all could've shared it.”

“I don't think most folks out here include ‘sharing is caring’ into their philosophy,” Ludwig said.

“That is the last time I try to help someone at your insistence, Harper.”

He grinned mischievously. “We'll see about that, Krakauer. Oh, huh. Now I know why they call you the Head-Cracker Mercenary. A little on-the-nose, but okay.”

He kinda kept forgetting she was a well-established merc. The flimsy medic couldn't have been in better hands. “Well, glad y'all are fine. Let's go say hi to Mr. Nash.”

As they drew closer to Primm, the large rollercoaster a wooden beacon, Sara started taking out as many geckos as the rest of them, recovering her prowess with a gun. She was also notably talkative, but grew quieter as her headache manifested as winces and gentle massages to her right temple.

Ludwig lifted his chin and squinted to see an NCR flag tied to a streetlamp across the overpass in front of the town walls. Behind it sat an encampment of tents, NCR soldiers stationed here and there. One of them saw their caravan approaching, running out to meet them.

“Hope you guys aren't thinking of heading into Primm,” the young soldier said. His tan NCR uniform hung amorphously on him, two sizes too big. “Place has gone to absolute shit, all thanks to those Powder Gangers.”

Ugh. Those fucks again. They'd run into a pitifully small camp of theirs before they reached the watering hole. At this point, they were just pests playing at rebellion.

“We were, actually,” Sara said, stepping forward. “Are you saying we can't go in?”

The trooper shook his head. “I can't stop you from entering the city, just like I can't make sure you don't get a leg blown off as soon as you do.”

Helena rolled her eyes behind her tinted shades. “We are going in. Do you have more information on the situation?”

The young soldier directed them to Lieutenant Hayes in the camp. He was the one in charge of the finer details of their mission.

Ludwig was  _ so _ shocked to learn that the NCR had completely lost control of Primm. The citizens of the town were holed up in the local casino while the Powder Gangers squatted in the Bison Steve Hotel. Their supplies had been dwindling since the convicts showed up a couple weeks ago, and it was a matter of time before they'd have to abandon the town and find refuge elsewhere.

And, as per usual, the NCR’s presence meant diddly shit except keeping the Powder Gangers from advancing south. Turns out that the convicts were more well-armed and organized than their intel thought. They couldn't spare the supplies or soldiers to help the townsfolk retake the town. The problem looked nowhere near a solution.

They were dismissed with a vague apology from the lieutenant, leaving them no closer to talking with Johnson Nash. They discussed the next step over lunch at one of the camp’s picnic tables.

“Well, if we leave now, we can make it to the Outpost or maybe even Nipton by nightfall,” he said, seeing no practical option here.

Sara crossed her arms. “No way, we gotta speak with the Primm office head, plus anyone who might’ve seen the guys that attacked us. Which means we're saving this town from the Powder Gangers.”

He bit back a groan. “It's a waste of ammo, kid. Besides, we  _ just _ did the same thing barely a day ago, let's try something new, huh?”

“That just means we’ve done it before,” she said, grinning. “Which means we  _ know  _ we can handle it!”

Next thing Ludwig knew, the four of them hitched the brahmin at the NCR camp and crept their way into the town of Primm. If he didn’t know any better, he’d say that it’d been abandoned.

They only encountered two Powder Gangers in the streets outside. Sara scoped them out from the second floor of a ruined building beside the Mojave Express, across the street from the Vikki and Vance casino. Ludwig snuck up behind the first, taking him out with a chokehold, while Sara circled around to the other side of the casino, dropping the next convict with two well-aimed shots.

With the immediate area clear, they split up again into two groups. Sara and Solomon would check on the citizens of Primm, while Ludwig and Helena would infiltrate the Bison Steve. Before Helena opened the doors to the hotel, Ludwig looked back to see that their counterparts made it okay into the casino.

Solomon had already gone inside, but Sara stood in the doorway, holding it open while looking over at the Mojave Express building across the street. He watched as she scurried through open ground, reaching the front door of the office and stopping in front of a corpse, looking less than a day dead. She rifled through his bag, one that vaguely resembled hers, before pulling out a piece of paper and slipping it into her back pocket. Quickly, she returned to the casino doors, catching Ludwig watching her. She gave him a thumbs-up, without smiling, before disappearing into the building.

With that, they cracked open the doors to the hotel enough to pass through quietly, and got to work.

 

* * *

 

The Vikki and Vance was in poor shape, to put it lightly, turned into little more than an impromptu refugee camp. What was once a Vegas-on-a-budget casino was as far from luxurious as a drug den. Solomon surveyed the open room, assessing the damage to the townsfolk without really meaning to.

To their credit, they were observing him right back. If they didn't recognize him from his caravan’s comparatively brief stay here, he was at least filed under “Not a Convict” and lost most folk’s attention with his and Sara’s entrance.

He looked back, startled to see she wasn't there, until she entered the casino a second later. The pang of worry died as soon as it rose.

“Well, as I live and breathe!” a kindly, withered voice said. “Out of all the caravans to come back ‘round here!”

An elderly woman sat in front of one of the slot machines, rotating her stool to face them. A dusty pink dress hung on her slight, mahogany shoulders, a delicate picture of a person.

“Long time no see, Mrs. Nash!” Solomon greeted.

“Oh, none of that,” she tutted. “It's Ruby to you, son.” Then, she settled her eyes on Sara, polite but not as fond. “Took longer to come get your bonus than I expected you to. Unfortunately, my husband can't do business until those Powder Gangers are out of here.”

“Oh, we didn't actually make it to Vegas,” she said. “We were ambushed near Goodsprings, and I got a couple bullets in the head.” She pointed to her left temple, the dark red scar mostly hidden by the strap of the goggles sitting on her head, before sticking her right hand out. “I don't remember anything before then, so, it's nice to meet you again, Mrs. Nash!”

Ruby’s lips curved in a pleasantly surprised smile as she gave a gentle handshake. “Well, goodness, I guess there were some manners in you after all! It's Ruby to you, too, sweetie.”

They walked with Ruby in the casino, discussing the Powder Gangers both here and in Goodsprings. Sara relayed Ringo’s story while Solomon glanced around the open game floor. An ancient, bullethole-ridden automobile stood on a raised platform in the very center, surrounded by card tables and roulette wheels. A lone robot, one of those clunky Protectron types, ambled slowly across the room. He noted with amusement that someone had put a cowboy hat on it. The people were a little worse for wear, but surviving.

Johnson Nash was in the back room, reclining on a couch and chatting with some other townsfolk. The reintroductions were brief, what with Johnson being familiar with Sara from previous courier gigs she'd run in the area. They reminded him that they'd come by a month earlier, as his office served as a prime checkpoint. They’d checked into similar Mojave Express offices in Sac-town, Shady Sands, and the Hub on their way from Sunnyvale. Solomon had never been this far south before, but from what he could tell, the rest of his caravan was more or less based in southern New California. Except Ludwig, the oddball from out east. 

Johnson didn’t react to Sara’s newfound politeness like his wife had. A true businessman, he got right to the point. “Sorry to say, youngster, but I don't have any more work for you right now. You'd be best checking in with the fellas in the Hub, anyways, on a count of the situation here in Primm.”

“Oh, that's okay,” she assured him. “I'm not looking for courier work right now, I was just hoping you could give us more information about the package I got shot over.”

“I'll tell you what I can remember ‘til I can get to my office. You got the delivery order?”

She fished out two pieces of paper from her messenger bag. “Here's mine, plus one I found on a dead courier outside your office.”

Johnson scratched his brown chin, smile-lined eyes squinting as he skimmed the papers. “Oh, you're talkin’ ‘bout one of  _ them _ orders? I remember those. Thought they were a bit odd.”

He handed her back the papers, standing up as he recounted what he knew about the job. They walked with him back out to the casino floor while he told them how a cowboy robot — the one on the casino floor? Or Victor? How many cowboy robots could a wasteland have? — had hired six different caravans to deliver different oversized trinkets to the Strip. Their caravan was in charge of delivering a large platinum poker chip, and theirs was the only one who hadn't completed the delivery.

He led them to the cash registers on the south side of the room, where a man was stationed dispensing rations. Solomon peered behind him, seeing a meager supply of mostly pre-war packages and canned goods that wouldn't last another week.

“Guess we got here just in time,” Solomon said. “Once the Powder Gangers are gone, trade should pick back up around here.”

Johnson nodded as he opened up a can of pork ‘n beans. “Right you are, youngster. I take it the muscle of your group can handle the whole crew in the hotel?”

“Moreso than we can,” he said. “I know Sara and I can find our way around a gun, but those two are on another level.”

“Wonder if y'all would've fared better with another strongarm in the group,” Johnson mused. “The guy who was originally supposed to be your courier looked like he could hold his own real well.”

Sara and Solomon both tilted their heads at him. “You mean I wasn't first pick for the job?” she asked, sounding as offended as she did confused. “What happened with him?”

Johnson Nash scoffed as he sat at a nearby roulette table. “The deadbeat canceled on us, caused a mighty inconvenient delay.” He took a bite of his lunch and continued grumbling, mouth full. “Hope a storm from the Divide skins him alive.”

“Why'd he cancel?” Solomon asked.

“Saw this one’s name next on the list,” he said, waving his spoon at Sara. “Took one glance and got the strangest look on his face, asked me if you were the young girl with the purple hair. I said sure as lack of rain, the very same. Not like we got a lot of those. You’d just started operatin’ ‘round these parts this year.” He paused to swallow his food. “Just like that, he turned down the offer. I asked him if he was sure — the pay was real good, y’know? Told me, ‘Let Courier Sara carry the package.’ And then he just walked out.”

“What was his name?” Sara leaned forward, eyes frantic. “Did he mention how we knew each other? Where is he now?”

“Does a Courier Grant ring a bell? Don't know much else ‘bout that guy. Haven’t seen him since.”

Her eyebrows shot up. “Yeah, actually, it does!”

“Can you recall how you know him?”

She rubbed her forehead, tense in concentration. Whatever answers she was reaching for didn't seem to come to her. She waved away the unfruitful train of thought and shook her head.

“Well,” Johnson said, “whatever history you two got must've been pretty important for him to react like that.”

The casino doors opened with a bang. At first, Solomon thought that the other two had finished up in the Bison Steve already, but he was soon proven wrong by the sight of three angry convicts.

“I come down from the rollercoaster,” the one with a motorcycle helmet on growled, “and find two of my men dead on the pavement.”

The entire floor went silent. Johnson Nash’s spoon stopped halfway on its journey to his mouth, wary eyes on the Powder Gangers. Solomon snapped to attention as well. God, they should've expected there to be more convicts patrolling outside. Why didn't they check the rollercoaster?

The helmeted one brandished a cleaver, a tool specifically designed to slice through meat. A knife didn't care whether it was pork or people; all blades slice if sharp enough. “Anyone care to let me know who the culprit is?”

What Solomon was about to say to Sara was, “Hey, Ludwig and Helena should be back soon, maybe we can stay quiet until they do.” He would've said it, too, if she'd given him the time to at all.

But instead, she took a step towards them, clasping her hands in front of her. In the smallest squeak he's heard her use, she said, “Um. I know who.”

“Speak up, kid,” the blond on the left barked. “Won't ask again.”

Solomon tapped her on the arm, trying to get her to at least tell him what her angle here was. She ignored him, taking another step towards them and clearing her throat. “I said I know who did it.”

The helmeted convict walked towards her, swinging his cleaver lazily. “Can't say I recall seeing a brat with purple hair around here.”

“I, uh, just got it done,” she said, her voice clipped.

The man approached her, stopping a mere foot away from her. “I don't give a shit. Whose sorry ass am I kicking, sweetheart?”

Sara shifted from foot to foot, chewing on her lip. Suddenly, she froze, looked past the convict’s shoulder, pointed behind his two friends, and cried, “That’s him!”

...This was her plan. A  _ made-you-look _ gag. He couldn't believe it. For a situation so easily teetering between life and death, she didn’t seem to care enough to take it seriously. Whether or not she was actually a teenager, this proved that she was the most immature, naïve,  _ clown-hearted _ person Solomon had ever met in his entire life. 

He also couldn't believe it when the convicts actually  _ fell for it. _

They whirled around to face the perpetrator, and, before registering the fact that no one was there, faced the consequences of letting their guard down while outnumbered. Once the courier flashed her pistol and fired it from the hip, every other armed townsperson followed suit.

The whole business was over in a matter of seconds. With the convicts on the ground, the silence continued, half in disbelief, half in residual terror.

Solomon broke it. “How on  _ earth _ did that work?”

Sara burst out laughing, no doubt from nerves. “I don’t know! I didn't think it would!”

He just stared at her, closing his mouth when he realized his jaw had fallen open some time ago.

She wasn’t just clown-hearted — she was a deck of cards fully comprised of jokers.

The door opened again, and this time, it was Helena and Ludwig. They first looked at the three bodies diligently staining the carpet, and then at him and Sara.

“...The fuck?” Ludwig said.

 

* * *

 

The Mojave Express office of Primm hadn't changed much in a month. Everything was exactly as they'd left it, including the robot Solomon had tried fixing up. That was a relief. Helena was hoping it was still there.

It was growing close to evening by the time she'd made much progress. Their arrival in Primm yesterday had caused a bit of a stir, but with Ludwig out finding the town a new sheriff, things were settling down.

When they'd stormed the hotel, they hadn't known about the town's kidnapped deputy being held hostage in the kitchen. The fact that Ludwig made lucrative use of the dynamite he kept harvesting like carrots from every downed convict seemed like a good idea at the time. Sometimes your plan to lead the enemy into a cramped room so you can blow them up is brilliant. Flawless. Executed perfectly.

Other times, you have to stop to throw a bound man over your shoulder and keep running while narrowly escaping a swarm of violent felons  _ and  _ a series of explosions  _ and _ falling concrete.

She'd say that they didn't pay her enough for this shit, but she was in fact compensated. More than well enough, without even counting the caps she'd make when they recovered and delivered the package.

The courier kept thankfully quiet company. While Helena installed the parts she'd taken from the radio trailer they’d found, Sara was flipping through the file folders at the kitchen table for more information on the job. Johnson Nash gave her access to the drawer he kept those particular order papers in, but it'd been a good hour since she sat down with the file. If she'd found anything, she hadn't said so yet.

Helena had just replaced the last sensor module when she heard the courier mutter something. “Found something?”

The girl just groaned. “Hardly. The more I read about this job, the less I understand it.” She replaced the papers and closed the folder with a frustrated slap. “All six packages were just giant game-adjacent knickknacks — a chess piece, a deck of cards, a pair of fuzzy dice… It doesn't make sense.”

Helena shrugged, rechecking the new wires she installed. “Maybe someone in New Vegas is really into— what did you call them? Knickknacks?”

“Maybe,” she said. “But what was it about  _ our  _ package that made it the only one worth stealing?”

Maybe duct tape would be enough to get this thing running. Eh, couldn't hurt. “The poker chip is made of platinum, yeah? Some consider that valuable enough to steal.”

“That's true, but the queen chess piece was made of solid gold.” She replaced the file and closed the drawer she'd found it in, dragging her feet the whole way to and from her seat. “Courier Two’s caravan delivered that just fine. Why were  _ we  _ targeted? Why was that chip the  _ only _ thing they took?”

Helena sighed. She knew the girl was just trying to brainstorm, but it sucked not having all the answers. “Maybe we were just unlucky.”

Sara laughed. “We’ve been over this! I'm the luckiest person in the wasteland, remember?”

“Ah, right. How could I have forgotten?”

They sank back into quiet company. Sara had her eyes closed, leaning back against the wall. She was rubbing her right temple and breathing deliberately. Seemed like her head injury wasn't a huge fan of stress.

It was probably gonna have to get used to that.

When Helena finished recalibrating its servos and replaced a wire to its power core, the robot started humming with energy. As its systems began to boot up, she screwed the panel to its hatch shut and placed it upright on the counter.

“Okay,” she said. “It certainly is not equipped with the kind of technology it was built with, but that should suffice. As long as it has power, its databanks should be accessible.”

Sara opened one eye, then closed it. “How'd you get so good at fixin’ things?”

“I fixed a lot of things,” she replied. “Come on, Solomon will want to see—”

Without warning, the robot made a staticky beeping noise. Both of them jumped, not expecting it to do much else but sit there.

“Huh. Wonder what that—”

It beeped again, this time clear of static. It was a collection of high-pitched notes, echoing halfway between digital and metallic. Then, they watched as a hidden propulsion system kicked on and the robot started to shakily hover above the counter. A small, front-facing laser gun attached to the bottom of it regained power, glowing dimly at the muzzle. It beeped again in the closest approximation to singing Helena has heard a machine ever produce.

With all its functions back online, the eyebot hovered forward, closer to Sara, who was wearing the most gleeful smile yet. Then, her Pip-Boy screen flashed twice, grabbing her attention.

“‘Begin companion protocol?’” she read aloud. “Oh, hell  _ yes _ I will!”

She stood up as the eyebot beeped fervently, swaying gently in place. Sara clapped her hands and laughed, dancing along with her new… friend, Helena guessed.

“Let me rephrase that!” she exclaimed, looking at Helena with stars in her eyes. “How did you get so  _ absolutely fucking AMAZING _ at fixin’ things!”

A warm smile graced Helena’s face. “I fixed a lot of things very, very well. And I had a good teacher.”

Their new companion followed them — or maybe just Sara— out of the office and into the casino to find Solomon. He had suggested reprogramming the cowboy robot that hung out by the old car to be the new sheriff. She thought he was joking, but they found him kneeling on the floor, elbow-deep in the programming of poor Primm Slim.

Computers weren't as hands-on as cold hardware. Solomon left the tangible problems to her, while he seemed better suited to fixing the codings of things. Primm Slim wasn't yet the sheriff the town needed, but he wasn't giving up.

“The robot is fixed,” Helena announced. 

He hadn't notice them come in, but when he turned around, he gasped at their new companion. Standing up from his work, he carefully approached the floating eyebot, making a soft, “Wooooowwww…” as he circled it. The bot followed his movement, turning to the right and then left as Solomon finished his inspection.

“He's so neat!” Sara said. Her unbridled joy hadn't diminished a bit. You'd think someone had given her a puppy instead of a piece of Enclave tech. “Look! My Pip-Boy let's me communicate with him!”

“Any way to access its databanks from there?” Solomon said, still looking closely at the robot.

She scrolled for a minute on her wrist-mounted computer, shaking her head. “I can access a couple audio logs on it, but it keeps giving me an error when I try to play them.”

“Well,” he huffed, “I guess I can try a manual bypass. Without the right equipment, I’d have to dismantle it completely, but I should be able to—”

“What? No!”

The eyebot trilled alarmingly, its propulsion system stuttering as it zipped behind Sara, dropping a few feet in the air. It beeped in a frantic pattern, to which Sara responded by crouching over it and wrapping her arms around it protectively. “It's okay, ED-E, I won't let the science man hurt you.”

It actually seemed to calm down as she ran a gentle hand over its chassis, beeping quieter.

Solomon’s right eyebrow quirked upwards, holding up his hands innocently. “Eddie? Oh, no. You named that thing already?”

“I didn’t name him,” she said, carefully letting it go and rising. The robot hovered just above and beside her. “See? He came with that name!”

She pointed out the license plate from Illinois bolted onto the left side of the robot. The numbers were faded with rust, but sure enough, the legible characters read “ED-E.”

Defeated, Solomon sighed and crossed his arms. “Well, I'm sure there's another way to get the data off it. Let it stick with us for a while.”

“Let  _ him _ stick with us, you mean.”

“It is a robot,” Helena deadpanned. “It is sexless.”

Sara pouted and pulled the eyebot into another hug, which it didn't seem to mind. “He's a baby boy and I love him.”

A snicker escaped Solomon. “Alright, just keep him safe for me. Have you been back up to the rollercoaster yet? You liked to hang out on the highest point behind the hotel when we were here last.”

Her face brightened again. “I bet I could get a great view of the sunset there! Come on, ED-E!”

With that, the courier pranced out of the casino, dutifully followed by her new best friend.

Solomon shook his head and went back to work on the Protectron. “Just when I think she’s a predictable level of unpredictable, she goes and adopts an Enclave eyebot.”

“I am not so sure there is such thing as a predictable level of unpredictable, Harper,” she said, sitting on the raised platform in front of him.

He smiled, still focusing on reprogramming the ever-patient Primm Slim. “When every card in your deck is a wild card, it’s pretty easy to guess what you’re gonna draw next.”

She thought for a moment, leaning against the railing surrounding the antique car. “That is assuming you  _ know _ every card in your deck.”

“That it does, Head-Cracker.”

 

* * *

 

It had been three days since she was officially released from Doc Mitchell’s care, but it already felt like so many more than that had passed. The only reminder Sara had for how close the recent events had occurred were the persistent aches drumming in her head and her ribs.

The climb up the rollercoaster refreshed the feeling of bruised ribs. She had to pause halfway up, causing ED-E to beep once she stopped.

“I’m fine, buddy,” she said, keeping her breathing slow and shallow. It had gotten better since the showdown in Goodsprings, but inhaling fully drove spikes of pain into her side. “Just need to… take it slow.”

He didn’t respond, just waited patiently for her to start climbing again. When she breached the steep incline, she was met with a view that knocked the breath right back out of her.

The sun was just slipping beneath the horizon, orange and gold blooming across a cloudless sky. It cast purple shadows throughout the land, the vivid light glowing on each rocky outcrop, looking more like mountains than they had any right to. She could make out the distant shape of the Goodsprings Cemetery water tower to the north and some sparse radio towers to the east. There wasn’t much besides elevated, rocky ground to the west. She was sure there were passages to explore somewhere out there. An opening to the southwest suggested the Mojave Outpost, a break in the rugged terrain that most caravans passed through on the way into the Mojave.

She looked back towards the sun sinking westward. “I wonder if you can see this,” she said to ED-E. “You can understand language, but do you have, like, visual sensors?”

He beeped affirmatively, making her grin. What a neat little guy they’d found.

She was glad to have a new friend in the wastes. One who didn’t look at her weird when she dared to suggest helping someone in need. That sense of feeling like she should’ve been experiencing  déjà vu but wasn’t returned. If she had come up here so often before she was shot, she should have recognized the view. Felt something familiar, at least, but every moment felt like a new first. Most things did, nowadays.

Sara rested her elbows on the wooden barrier, relishing the moment of peace, however briefly it might last. Nothing about the rollercoaster rang any bells, but that was okay. She let the contentedness wash through her, knowing that she really was the luckiest person in the wasteland. Maybe even the entire world.

“I’m glad I’m still alive,” she said. “And I’m glad you are, too! Well, functioning again, at least.”

The robot sang happily in his digital tones and dipped around in the air. For a robot, he was really good at expressing emotion. Connecting with any sentient thing like that, sharing happiness for just a moment, was worth whatever life could throw at her.

Whoever she was, or whatever made her the closed-off person she used to be, was so far removed that it didn’t affect her right now. She had friends that cared about her and a wasteland full of people she had yet to meet or meet again.

Looking down at the town, Sara spotted two figures moving through the main street, recognizing one as Ludwig. He’d left Primm with a spare set of Powder Ganger armor and the name of a former sheriff at the NCR Correctional Facility several hours ago.

“C’mon, ED-E,” she said, pushing off the balcony. “Let’s introduce you to the last member of our caravan. I think you’ll like him!”

He beeped in meek, high tones as he followed her back down the rollercoaster track.

 

* * *

 

**Primm — Behind the Bison Steve, on top of the rollercoaster**

**September 27, 2281**

**20:29**

 

“Sure,” Courier Sara mumbled, not bothering to spare the caravan leader a glance. He’d come up here to tell her that they would leave in the evening tomorrow instead of the morning, due to the high heat of the Mojave Desert. She couldn’t give less of a shit. They would still get to the Strip on time. What did it matter what hour they left?

He left her as soon as he’d arrived. Good. She valued her alone time, something that was hard to come by in the recent weeks.

Traveling for so long with the same people was a test of her patience. She wasn’t used to working in a caravan. She preferred to work alone whenever possible, but the caps were nothing to shake a stick at, so she took the job. The long trek from Sunnyvale to New Vegas wasn’t the problem — it was putting up with company.

She was tired.

Courier Sara leaned over the wooden railing of the rollercoaster, finding the brightly moonlit view mildly charming at best. Disinterested, she returned her gaze to the ground below her. It must have been a hundred-foot drop from here to the dirt. Maybe more. She wondered when she would be this high up again.

She kept wondering until she pulled herself away, and left.

She still had a package to deliver. Once that was done, she could collect her bonus, spend it on drinks, and maybe come back up here one last time.

The view  _ was _ kinda nice, at least.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you so much for reading! happy holidays y'all!


End file.
